-NRLF 


B    3    mt,    3flS 


BERKEIEYX 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF     I 
CALIFORNIA     ./ 

CITY  AND  REO, 

PLANNING 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 

By 
CHARLES  MULFORD  ROBINSON 

Author  of 

"Modern  Civic  Art"      "Rochester  Ways" 

"The  Improvement  of  Towns 

and  Cities"  etc.  etc. 


THE  CORNHILL  COMPANY 

BOSTON 


CITY  AND  RE<5 
PLANNING 


Copyright  1920 

by 
The  Cornhill  Company 


/ 

3S 

&3 
<LS~ 


Selections  from  the 

writings  of  Charles  Mulford  Robinson 

presented  in  loving  memory 

by  his  wife 
Eliza  T.  E.  P.  Robinson 


789 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  CITY  SLEEPS       .      ....     .     .     .  3 

SED  MINISTRARE .     .     .  5 

THE  SONG  OF  PEACE .     .  11 

EDEN  REGAINED   .      .      .      .     .     .     .     .     .  14 

GREETING  THE  NEW  YEAR    .      .....  16 

LOVE  IN  VENICE    .     .     .     ....     .     .  18 

SERENADE  FROM  "DREAM  CAMP"    ....  20 

A  SERENADE    .     .     .     .     .     ...     .     ,  21 

To  LOVE     ...........  22 

THE  VIOLIN .  23 

CHRISTMAS  PRESENTS      ...      ....  24 

FIRST  LOVE      .....;.....  27 

To  THESE  LINES  .      .      ....      .     .     .  28 

MY  COUNTRY  .      .     .     .     .     ...     .      .  30 

MOVING      .......     4     ...  32 

LULLABY 34 

CHRISTMAS  HYMN 36 

SUNDAY  SCHOOL  CHRISTMAS  SONG  ....  37 

EASTER  CAROL VV     .      .      .  39 

TRAVELING 40 

STREET  CAR  HORSE 42 

LENT     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     ....     .  44 

NEW  YEAR'S  RESOLUTIONS  .      .     .     .     ».     .  46 

NEW  YEAR'S '(•;•  •••."  •. '  •.     •.  47 

CHRISTMAS .  '   .     .  48 

CLASS  DAY  POEM       .     .     .....     .  50 

[11] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


GRANDMOTHER'S  BALL  DRESS    .....  54 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  SEA     .......  56 

THE  FIELDS  OF  FLANDERS     .     .     .     ;     .     .  58 

THE  DANUBE  ...     .      ...     .     ..     .  59 

RIVERSIDE  DRIVE       .     .     .     ...     •     •     •  60 

THE  SKY-SCRAPER      .      .     .     .......  61 

THE  UPLAND  MEADOW    .      .     .     .     *     .     .  63 

HYMN  FOR  CHILDREN'S  DAY       .....  65 

THE  BIG  TREES  IN  Mum  WOODS,  CALIFORNIA  66 

SUN  RISE    ...........  67 

PERFECT  LOVE 68 

WINNIE  DAVIS      .      .      .......      .      .  69 

THE  WALTZ     .     .      .      .      .    '.     >     .    ,.      .  "71 

A  RAG-BAG      .      .      .      .      ......  72 

THE  TIRELESS  SENTINEL.      ...     .     .     •  ^4 

WHEN  PHYLLIS  is  IN  TOWN 76 

GOING  AWAY   .     .     .     .     .     .....  78 

THE  REPLY      .     .     ....     :  .  .     .     .     .  80 

PREMEDITATED  SUICIDE   .      .     .     .     .     .     .  82 

KISSING      .      .      .      ....      .     .     .     *     •  84 

AUTUMN  DAYS  AND  DAWN    .      .     ...     .  86 

ALUMNI  AND  COMMENCEMENT 88 

THE  LOOK  OF  LOVE    ........  90 

HER  OPAL  RING    .      .      .      .      .      ....  91 

To  MY  LOVE   ..........  92 

A  LUNAR  TELEPHONE      .....     .     •  93 

MY  CASTLE 94 

WITH  SOME  ROSES     ...     •     •     •     -     •  95 

[x] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  NEW  YEAR 96 

SUNSET 99 

IDOL  REPAIRING 100 

VACATIONS       ...........  102 

SUMMER  AND  LAZINESS .  104 

PATHS  (FOOTPRINTS)  ........  106 

TREES  AND  SPRING  FOLIAGE 108 

THE  PEN 110 

THE  MAID  OF  THE  MIST Ill 

THE  WIND  ON  THE  PRAIRIE  .      .     .     .      .     .  112 

STARS 113 

THE  FOUR  WINDS 114 

OCTOBER- WALKING,  SUNSETS  AND  DEATH       .  116 

HOPE  AND  THE  NEW  YEAR   .      .     .     .      .      .  118 

SUMMER  AND  AUTUMN 120 

OCTOBER 122 

EASTER  AND  CHRISTMAS  .      .      .     .     ...     .  124 

LONGEVITY,  AGE  AND  DEATH 127 

TOMBS  .  129 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 

The  city  sleeps  and  dreams,  and  dreams  are  sweet. 
How  dark  and  still  the  street! 

At  peace  the  citizens  all  silent  lie; 

There  is  no  restive  eye; 

The  breath  is  calm,  no  hurried  feet  go  by, 
Night  falls,  and  rest  is  sweet. 

The  strife  and  struggle  of  the  garish  day, 
The  world  of  work  and  play, 

The  turmoil  and  the  fighting  —  all  is  past. 

Nor  loves  nor  hates  outlast 

The  wondrous  shadow  of  the  truce  that's  cast 
When  night  puts  all  away  — 

As  if  the  citizens  were  only  boys 

Grown  tired  of  tasks  and  toys, 

And  seeking  loving  mother's  knee,  that  there, 

With  bedtime  kiss  and  prayer, 

They  might  forget  the  daylight's  little  care 

And  surfeiting  of  joys. 

[3] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


0  peaceful  stars,  compassioning,  watchful  eyes, 

Make  low  the  lullabies 

That  in  vast  unison  the  planets  sing ; 

Let  them  wake  not,  nor  bring 

Too  soon  the  pitiless,  mad  dawn  on  wing 

That,  gleaming,  stirs  the  skies ! 

And  thou,  pale  moon,  pass  on  with  silent  tread  — 

Thou'st  seen  the  world  to  bed. 

Do  ye,  mild  winds,  snuff  out  her  little  light 

With  big  clouds,  soft  and  white, 

As  she  upon  the  sleeping  world  shuts  tight 

The  door,  her  "good  night"  said. 

And  ye,  black  rivers,  rolling  to  the  sea, 
Roll  on  most  quietly, 

Lest  ye  may  wake  the  city,  lying  still, 

Unconscious  of  the  ill 

Or  good  the  morrow  may  bring  forth  to  fill 
Its  cup,  —  blest  mystery ! 

And  last,  0  Father  of  the  world,  look  down 
With  smile,  and  not  with  frown, 

And  bless  the  city  proud  and  rich  and  great. 

Forgot  is  its  estate, 

In  childlike  innocence,  immaculate, 
It  sleeps  —  Thy  peace  its  crown  I 

[4] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


SED  MINISTRARE 

When  heroes  died  in  olden  days, 

Valkyries,  hov'ring  o'er  the  fight, 
Received  the  knights  with  love  and  praise, 

And  courage  came  into  its  right. 
Nor  passed  there  with  each  chieftain  dead 

So  much  of  bravery  out  of  earth. 
The  sons  of  men,  by  mem'ry  fed, 

Required  not  other  brav'ry's  birth; 
They  fought  like  sons,  and  fought  as  men 

Who  would  leave  sons  to  fight  again. 

For  when  a  hero  thus  has  passed, 

Immortalized  by  tale  and  song, 
Earth  has  not  known  of  him  the  last: 

In  battle's  front  he  still  is  strong 
To  point  the  way  and  do  the  deed. 

Inspiring  by  the  part  he  played, 
He's  present,  in  the  hour  of  need, 

To  quicken  pulse  that  is  afraid. 
So  sire  still  fights  in  arm  of  son 

And  sons  can  do,  for  sires  have  done. 

And  there  were  some  who  even  thought 
That  swords,  which  heroes  might  not  take 

[5] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


To  far  Valhalla,  yet  had  caught, 

And  held,  for  their  new  owners'  sake, 
The  spirit  that  had  made  of  old 

Their  masters  brave.    And  so  the  son 
Was  doubly  strong  and  doubly  bold 

Whose  sword  had  other  battles  won. 
He  was,  than  single  hero,  more, 

Since  one  was  in  the  sword  he  bore. 

Then  came  the  time  when  Christ  was  born 

'Mid  lilies'  beauty,  o'er  the  sea, 
When  death  lay  dead  at  Easter  morn 

And  love  was  strong  through  Galilee. 
Then  swords  were  sheathed  and  peace  was  dear, 

And  something  else  than  brutal  might  — 
A  baby's  smile,  a  woman's  tear, 

A  strong  man's  honor  —  settled  right. 
To  God,  to  country,  and  oppressed 
Was  service  of  the  sword  addressed. 

And  now  in  novel  form  was  wrought 

The  hilt  which  rose  o'er  sheath  and  sword. 
The  lesson  that  the  Master  taught 

Was  seized  in  spirit,  and  adored. 
A  cross  he  grasped  who  drew  his  blade; 

And  in  that  sign  of  sacrifice, 
Of  love,  and  pity,  there  was  made 

Reminder,  that  with  honor  dies 

[6] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


He  only  who  has  spent  to  aid 

Just  cause  his  life,  or  drawn  his  blade. 

So  rose  the  shout  of  "Holy  War," 

And  knighthood,  roused  by  preacher's  cries, 
Puts  spurs  to  steed,  that  nevermore 

Should  Pagan  hold  the  place  where  lies 
The  tomb  in  which,  in  sleeping  death, 

The  Prince  of  Peace  had  found  his  rest. 
There  Saracen  wrought  fearful  death; 

But  thrice  the  knights  returned,  since  blest, 
Who  won  or  died,  was  he  whose  blade 
Was  stained  with  blood  of  a  crusade. 

And  if  he  died  they  bore  him  home, 

And  while  his  lady  wept  sad  tears 
They  carved  his  image  on  his  tomb 

And  crossed  the  legs,  that  through  the  years 
All  men  might  know  that  here  one  lay 

Who  had  been  brave,  and  quick  to  hear 
The  Christ-call  that  was  far  away; 

And  so,  without  reproach  or  fear, 
Gave  up  his  life.    To-day  men  read 
And  honor  still  the  knightly  deed. 

As  setting  sun  still  gilds  or  paints, 
With  ruddy  hue  or  fading  blush, 
The  earth's  last  point  —  what  spire  of  saints, 

[7] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


Or  tower  of  king,  or  dome,  it  touch  — 
So,  with  like  glow  in  hearts  of  men, 

Though  centuries  have  rolled  between, 
We  see  the  love  of  God  again 

And  men  as  brave  as  they  have  been; 
As  quick  to  hear  in  hour  of  need 
Crusader's  call  to  knightly  deed. 

Why,  then,  turn  back  to  other  times 

And  why  seek  courage  in  the  grave? 
Does  love  know  aught  of  years  and  climes, 

Has  pity  ceased,  are  men  less  brave? 
Behold  how  soon  a  nation's  heart 

Responds  to  suff 'ring's  strain  and  sigh. 
As  once  to  tears  of  slav'ry's  mart, 

Again  we  raise  a  ringing  cry: 

Christ  died  to  make  men  better;  we 
As  twice  before  will  make  men  free! 

The  ancients  thought  that  men  of  war 

Still  loved  in  death  to  watch  the  fight, 
Or  that  a  sword  which  hero  bore 

Was  stronger  for  another's  might. 
So  now,  in  our  own  time,  we  know 

That  sires  and  grandsires  blessings  give 
To  those  love-roused  to  strike  the  blow 

That  makes  men  free  and  bids  them  live. 

[8] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


Again  in  hist'ry's  stirring  page 
Is  youth's  reveille  blown  by  age. 

Those  men  who  fired  the  shot  world-heard, 

That  here  men  should  for  aye  be  free; 
And  those  who  wrote  the  magic  word 

In  blood,  where  Southern  slaves  could  see  — 
The  past  and  present,  ev'ry  bar 

Of  crimson  on  our  flag,  is  shout 
To  rise  once  more  in  freedom's  war; 
To  throw  the  ancient  banner  out. 

Ourselves,  and  those  we  bound,  made  free; 
Our  swords  shall  serve  humanity. 
******** 

How  fair  through  all  the  years  have  gazed, 

With  sweet  and  tender  smile,  those  saints 
Whom  painters  drew,  when  art  was  raised 

And  heaven,  loving  him  who  paints, 
Drew  back  her  veil!    Not  now  in  line 

Unconscious  of  perspective's  claim 
We  paint;  and  yet  we  note  how  fine 

Their  skill.     Their  soul  makes  just  their  fame. 
They  saw  so  much  we  marvel  yet 
And  look  beyond  what  they  forget. 

Time  changes  spirit  of  crusade 
As  it  does  art  —  in  form.     The  rest 

[9] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


Is  love,  is  soul.    We  still  grasp  blade 

In  wish  our  Saviour's  grave  to  wrest 
From  hands  unholy.     Not  of  stone 

The  tomb  we  find.     If  ere  there  be 
A  heart  that  breaks,  a  needless  moan, 
There  seek  we  Christ,  assured  that  He 
Counts  him  a  hero,  dubs  him  knight, 
Who  strives  another's  wrong  to  right. 

So,  when  the  clarion  bugles  call, 

When  soft  words  fail,  and  men  must  gain 
With  sword,  right,  freedom,  truth,  and  all 

That  makes  life  full  —  then,  then,  again 
Comes  brave  reply.    The  swords  leap  forth; 

The  heroes  of  Valhalla  speak; 
The  cry  of  "Holy  War"  rings  forth, 

For  now  Christ-crucified,  we  seek!  - 
A  nation  lifts  twice  hallowed  blade; 
The  world  salutes  a  fourth  crusade! 


[10] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  SONG  OF  PEACE 

Isaiah:  XXVI,  3. 


A  prophet,  taking  up  a  harp,  leaned  over  it, 
And  thumbed  sweet  music  from  its  strings, 
And  sang  these  words,  in  half  unconscious  revery, 
Which   God's   own   angel   whispered   in   his   soul: 

"Him  Thou 
Wilt  keep  in  perfect  peace  whose  mind  is  stayed 

on  Thee." 

The  passing  breezes  caught  the  words  and  bore 

them  on 
Their  wings,  the  field  flowers  bent  their  heads  at 

hearing  them, 

The  brook  inserted  them  into  its  song,  and  dried 
Leaves  whirling  on  its  restless  tide  knew  peace  must 

come. 

The  forest  trees  repeated  it  in  mighty  song, 
The  rivers  bore  the  message  to  the  peaceless  sea, 
And  ocean  pounded  out  on  rocky  shore,  "Him  Thou 
Wilt  keep  in  perfect  peace  whose  mind  is  stayed 

on  Thee." 

[11] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


A  weary  trav'ler  paused  to  lay  his  burden  down, 
And  saw  the  heav'ns  don  their  sable  robes  of  cloud 
To  mourn  the  day,  and  fallen  leaves  float  silent  on 
The  stream  which  flowed,  like  time,  unceasingly. 

He  sighed; 

But  while  he  lingered,  lo!  a  glory  in  the  West, 
The  red  and  gold  of  setting  sun;  and  he  could  see 
The   grasses   bend   to   whispered   words   divine  — 

"Him  Thou 
Wilt  keep  in  perfect  peace  whose  mind  is  stayed  on 

Thee." 


Love  walked  through  shady  paths  where,  far  above, 

the  trees, 

Like  love,  hold  hands  in  silent  ecstacy  and  hide, 
With  leafy  boughs,  the  beating  hearts  beneath. 
Then  slowly  in  the  ev'ning  sky  the  lovers'  moon 

arose 

And  pierced  the  tracery  with  light,  and  saw  the  tears 
Which  fall  when  love  remains  and  hope  has  died. 

To  earth 

Its  pale  beams  fell  in  tears  of  sympathy, 
And  swaying  branches  sang  this  requiem:     "Him 

Thou 
Wilt  keep  in  perfect  peace  whose  mind  is  stayed  on 

Thee." 

[12] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


A  poet  wand'ring  restless  on  the  ocean  beach 
Beheld  the  stars.  God's  beacons,  gleam  out  singly  in 
The  sky's  blue  deeps;   and  saw  in  each  far  distant 

light 

An  unfilled  dream  of  youth,  a  goal  still  unattained 
And  mourning  cried,  "Ah,  life  is  but   a  peaceless 

sea;" 
When,  lo!    He  heard  the  ocean  chant  the  words: 

"Him  Thou 
Wilt  keep  in  perfect  peace  whose  mind  is  stayed 

on  Thee." 

The  dying  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars  repeat  the  words 
To  youth  and  age,  to  sorrow  and  to  wearied  hope, 
And  send,  on  beams  of  light,  the  message  which  the 

breeze 
Had  caught  from  trembling  strings  of   prophet's 

harp  and  borne 
In  endless  cycle  through  the  restless  world,  "Him 

Thou 
Wilt  keep  in  perfect  peace  whose  mind  is  stayed  on 

Thee." 


[13] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


V 

EDEN  REGAINED 

A  poet  wrote  of  that  lost  Paradise 

Which  deeply  veiled  in  ancient  shadow  lies. 

With  mournful  verse  and  sad  regret,  he  told 

The  tale  of  Eden,  closed  by  sins  of  old. 

But  as  he  ceased  his  verse,  a  hope  broke  through  — 

Perhaps  there's  yet  an  Eden,  —  strive  anew ! 

We  know,  indeed,  the  angel,  Eden  left, 
Enjoined  the  heav'nly  chorus  he'd  bereft 
And  later  woke  the  world  on  Christmas  morn 
With  "Peace,   Goodwill  on  earth;    the  Christ   is 

born!" 

Hence  men  may  seek  for  Eden  not  in  vain 
Since  Christ,  in  coming,  op'ed  its  gates  again. 

In  manger  bare  where  infant  Christ-child  lies 

Men  seek  and  find  again  their  Paradise. 

Our  hope  still  centers  on  that  tiny  form, 

That  Baby- voice  which  rules  the  wind  and  storm; 

Which  bids  the  heavy-ladened  rest 

And  find  the  Eden  of  the  poet's  quest. 

Why,  else,  brought  wise  men  presents  afar? 
Why  shone  o'er  Bethlehem  that  wondrous  star? 

[14] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


Who  was  it  died,  that  came  not  to  destroy? 
What  is  it  gives  to  burning  martyrs  joy? 
Oh,  Light  divine,  with  holy  sacrifice, 
Thou  hast,  indeed,  brought  back  our  paradise. 

Dear  Eden  of  the  poets,  fair  wert  thou ; 

But  fairer  is  the  Eden  granted  now. 

Like  Enoch,  we  must  toil  its  joys  to  win 

Yet,  at  the  end,  we,  too,  shall  enter  in. 

A  bird  we,  too,  may  find;  but  ours  the  dove, 

Flown  from  God's  throne,  in  symbol  of  His  love. 

"Still  Eden's  choirs  through  all  our  music  sing; 
Still  Eden's  scents  to  all  our  blossoms  cling ; 
Still  Eden's  voices  through  our  poets  flow; 
Still  Eden's  colors  on  our  canvas  glow;" 
For  all  we  find  that's  most  divine  in  men 
Just  proves  Christ  in  us;  Eden  is  our's  again! 


[15] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


GREETING  THE  NEW  YEAR 

Hope  and  gladness 

Banish  sadness 
Father  Time's  new  child  is  born. 

Heir  of  ages, 

He  presages 
Brilliant  noon  to  follow  morn. 

Soft  the  pillows, 

Snowy  billows, 
Where  he  lies,  all  pure  and  fair. 

Winds  are  singing 

Blessings  bringing, 
Fruit  of  Old  Year's  dying  care. 

Stars  were  bending 

Low,  pretending 
Guard  to  keep  about  the  child. 

Darkness  flying 

Old  Year  dying 
Dawn  has  kissed  him,  Day  has  smiled. 

Let  us  greet  him, 
Smiling  meet  him; 
Welcome,  New  Year,  born  to-day  I 

[16] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


Great  past  stories 
Mean  new  glories, 
Thou  shalt  higher  lead  our  way. 

Hope  sustaining, 

Fear  disdaining, 
We  accept  thy  promise  bright. 

Old  Year's  crosses, 

Griefs  and  losses, 
All  were  buried  yesternight. 

Wondrous  birthday! 

Justly  mirth  day. 
For  the  world  begins  anew! 

Hail  him,  crown  him, 

Naught  shall  down  him, 
Here's  to  New  Year!    Joy  to  you! 


[17] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


LOVE  IN  VENICE 

Love,  on  this  summer  night,  thou  at  my  side, 
Trusting  our  gondolier,  slowly  we  glide. 
Silent  the  stars  shine  out,  throbbing  with  love, 
O'er  us  Venetian  walls  tower  far  above. 

Rocked  on  the  water's  breast,  where  gleam  like  gold 
Tears  that  the  stars  have  dropped  for  years  of  old, 
Bridging  eight  hundred  years,  we  two,  alone, 
Guess  what  the  stars  have  seen  —  care  for  each  stone. 

Splendid  old  palaces!     Dim  they  appear. 
Night  hides  their  ancient  fronts,  clouds  shed  a  tear, 
Winds  kiss  the  marble  brows  where  sunbeams  played, 
Where  love  through  bright  eyes  shone  and  gladness 
made. 

Now  all  in  gloom  is  still,  fair  years  have  died. 
Night  drops  her  mourning  veil;  soft  winds  have 

sighed. 

But  on  their  ling'ring  sigh,  list,  Love,  a  breath 
Whispering,  "love  is  here  —  love  fears  not  death!" 

Under  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  see  how  we  came 
Out  on  the  broad  lagoon  —  life  is  the  same 
Past  the  dark  prison  walls,  narrow  the  way  - 
Love  comes!    Behold,  our  stream  widens,  a  bayl 

[18] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


Now  the  old  palaces  no  longer  loom 
Over  our  dainty  bark,  casting  a  gloom. 
Far  off  they  faintly  show  where  love  had  been; 
But  here  the  star-gemmed  waves  hold  thee,  my 
queen  I 


[19] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


SERENADE  FROM  "DREAM  CAMP" 

Softly  retreating  the  shadows, 
Chasing  each  other  at  will, 
Flee  from  the  stab  of  the  moonbeam 
Playing  on  casement  and  sill. 

Silently  fly,  oh,  ye  shadows! 

Silently  dance,  oh,  ye  beams! 

There  a  fair  maiden  is  sleeping, 

There  my  beloved  one  dreams. 

Gently  the  breezes  are  blowing, 
Bending  the  trees  as  they  pass. 
Softly  the  dew,  in  descending, 
Kisses  the  flowers  and  the  grass. 

Silently  faU,  oh,  ye  dewdrops! 

Silently  blow,  gentle  breeze! 

There  a  fair  maiden  is  sleeping  — 

Quietly  bend,  oh,  ye  trees! 


[20] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


A  SERENADE 

Gentle  breeze  of  ev'ning,  hasten  thou  to  bring 
Sweetest  slumber,  brightest  visions,  while  I  sing. 
Whisper  sweet,  with  dream  words,  in  my  loved  one's 

ear 

That  she  sleepeth  safely  for  her  lover's  near,  — 
Yes,  in  deep  dreams  murmur  stilly  that  her  lover's 

near. 

Shining  stars  of  heaven,  golden  orbs  of  night, 
Be  her  pure  protectors  with  thy  softened  light. 
Gently  rest,  my  loved  one;  sleep  till  day  doth  break, 
Stars  are  bending  o'er  you  —  watching,  wide  awake, 
Heaven  itself  a  guard  is  keeping  —  keeping  till  you 
wake. 

Sweetly  slumber,  loved  one,  happy  dreams  be  thine. 
Angels  whisper  softly  of  this  love  of  mine. 
Dream  of  fairy  castles,  dream  of  joy  untold, 
Dream  until  the  dawning  paints  the  East  with  gold; 
Dream,  and  know  on  waking  that  only  half  was  told. 


[21] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


TO  LOVE 

Hail  to  Love  as  it  enters  now, 
Welcome  Love,  welcome  Love! 
May  it  strong  and  tender  grow  — 
Gentle  breezes  ever  blow, 
May  it  trouble  never  know, 
Hail  to  immortal  love  I 

Welcome  love!  welcome  love! 
Hail  to  immortal  love! 

Chorus 

Hail  to  love  in  its  purity. 
Welcome  love,  welcome  love. 
May  it  firm,  confiding  be. 
May  it  bind  in  sympathy, 
Then  'twill  keep  its  majesty, 
Hail  to  immortal  love! 

Welcome  love!  welcome  love  I 
Hail  to  immortal  love! 

Chorus 


[22] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  VIOLIN 

"  There  is  a  tradition  that  as  the  mother  of  Paga- 
nini  was  dying  he  held  his  violin  to  her  lips  to  receive 
her  last  breath,  and  that  always  in  the  tones  of  that 
instrument  thereafter  he  heard  the  voice  of  his 
mother."  We  should  like  to  think  that  the  spirit  of 
a  loved  one  were  sighing  through  the  chords  of  every 
violin.  There  is  no  instrument  so  plaintive,  so 
pathetic  and  almost  human  as  the  violin.  In  its 
beautiful  quivering  notes,  its  long  drawn  sighs,  or 
the  wild  abandon  of  its  spirit  there  is  something  more 
than  the  throbs  of  an  instrument.  It  is  the  hardest 
instrument  to  master,  but  one  that  the  whole  world 
loves,  for  the  something  that  breathes  through  it, 
that  sighs  and  sings  through  the  quivering  strings 
and  appeals  to  the  heart  of  man. 


[23] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


CHRISTMAS  PRESENTS 

A  great  deal  has  been  written  and  said  about  the 
degeneration  of  Christmas  through  the  lavish  inter 
change  of  costly  presents.  The  extravagance  of  the 
age,  we  hear,  has  ruined  the  spirit  of  Christmas; 
and  a  few  pessimistic  persons  think  to  make  them 
selves  notable  by  deploring  the  existence  of  any 
Christmas  at  all.  With  long  faces  they  cry  that  they 
have  so  many  friends  that  Christmas  quite  ruins 
them,  you  know.  Poor  things !  They  are  the  ultra- 
fashionable  to  whom  amusement  is  a  bore,  exertion 
a  hardship,  and  acquaintances  a  nuisance.  But 
the  complaint  does  not  stop  there.  Parents  bewail 
the  fact  that  their  children  want  $4  toys  instead  of 
candy-canes  or  25-cent  pieces ;  and  that  the  modern 
Christmas  costs  a  great  deal  more  than  the  Christ 
mas  of  thirty  or  forty  years  ago.  But  it  is  no  less 
Christmas.  Indeed  if  one  were  to  go  way  back  to 
the  first  Christmas  day  he  would  find  the  Christmas 
of  to-day  more  like  that  than  were  the  celebrations 
of  a  generation  ago.  What  if  our  presents  are  costly, 
are  they  more  so  than  those  that  the  wise  men 
brought  from  the  East?  What  if  the  music  in  our 
churches  is  extravagant  in  its  beauty,  is  it  as  beautiful 
as  the  song  of  the  angels  on  the  first  Christmas  day? 

[24] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


And  what  if  we  do  show  our  love  for  dozens  of  friends, 
did  not  the  angels  proclaim  good  will  to  men— all 
men?  The  first  Christmas  is  the  only  model  that 
the  world  has  got,  but  because  our  celebrations  are 
costly  and  elaborate  now,  and  consist  in  more  than 
eating  and  drinking,  we  cannot  say  that  the  spirit  is 
lost.  But  you  long-faced  pessimists,  who  find  your 
selves  ruined  by  the  purchase  of  silver-backed  hair 
brushes,  and  souvenir  spoons  for  your  dozens  of 
friends,  and  who  look  upon  Christmas  merely  as  a 
distorted  product  of  fashion's  whim,  caring  nothing 
for  its  religious  origin,  suppose  you  consider  the  day 
in  a  worldly  manner  and  compare  its  "degeneration" 
to  the  changes  in  the  rest  of  the  world.  Is  not  life 
more  expensive  than  forty  years  ago?  If  your  chil 
dren  have  the  very  good  taste  to  prefer  a  $4  talking- 
doll  to  a  ten-cent-candy-cane  is  it  not  due  to  their 
bringing  up?  Yes,  you  may  flatter  yourselves  that 
you  have  trained  them  well.  They  prefer  watches 
that  go,  diamonds  to  paste,  and  sparrows'  brains  to 
sparrows'  wish-bones!  Christmas  has  only  changed 
with  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  if  you  lack  the  Christ 
mas  spirit,  it  is  your  fault,  not  the  world's.  And  if 
you  buy  presents  handsomer  than  you  can  afford 
you  are  no  whit  better  than  he  who  lives  beyond  his 
means,  and  runs  into  debt  for  a  tandem  to  be  like 
Thomas,  Richard,  or  Harry  Van  de  Couter  Smyjth. 

[25] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


You  deserve  to  be  miserable.  The  poor  do  not  want 
your  costly  presents,  and  the  very  rich  can  afford  to 
ignore  the  cost,  if  only  love, — the  hardest  thing  for 
the  rich  to  buy, — goes  with  it.  In  his  last  "Easy 
Chair"  in  Harper's,  and  almost  in  its  last  words, 
George  William  Curtis  said,  "You  cannot  buy 
Christmas  at  the  shops,  and  a  sign  of  friendly  sym 
pathy  costs  little."  The  great  mass  of  people  know 
this  and  never  dreamed  of  buying  Christmas.  It  is 
only  a  little  coterie  of  the  would-be  fashionables  who, 
worshiping  money,  find  that  its  Christmas  bank 
rupts  Crcesus,  and  cries  for  a  reform.  Use  as  much 
common  sense  in  your  Christmas  as  you  use  in  other 
things,  and  even  if  Christmas  does  not  prove  a  bless 
ing,  it  will  not  prove  a  bore. 


[26] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


FIRST  LOVE 

And  so  you've  come  back  to  me,  dearest  of  dears! 
The  months  of  your  absence  have  seemed  to  me  years, 
But  now  we're  together  we  never  will  part; 
You're  mine  and  I'm  yours.    Take  your  place  at  my 
heart. 

How  pretty  you  are  in  your  dainty  white  dress  I 
Such  beauty  I  did  not  suspect,  I  confess, 
Of  course  your  fair  spirit  and  heart  I  well  knew, 
But,  darling,  your  beauty  is  external  too. 

The  little  gold  threads  that  figure  your  gown, 
Your  straight  little  back  and  your  little  gold  crown 
Are  ravishing,  dear;  and  I  know  that  you'll  be 
The  talk  of  the  town  till  it's  jealous  of  me. 

Each  thought  in  your  being,  each  word  you  would 

say, 

Is  yet  what  I  think  and  just  what  I'd  say; 
And  so,  though  you're  silent,  I  hear ;  and  I  look 
With  joy  at  you,  darling  —  my  first  printed  book. 


[27] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


TO  THESE  LINES 

Good-bye,  dear  child.     A  pleasant  trip 

I  would  that  I  went  too. 
But  don't  come  back  again,  I  beg  — 

Home's  no  place  for  you. 

Go,  see  New  York.     I  pay  the  bill, 
And  here's  your  homeward  fare. 

But  if  they'll  keep  you  in  the  town, 
Just  stay  —for  I  shan't  care! 

And  you'd  best  stay ;  for  if  you  don't, 
To  Boston  you  shall  go, 
And  if  you  then  come  back  again  — 
To  Phila.,  which  is  slow. 

And  then  to  busy  towns  out  West 

You'll  go  all  travel  worn. 
You'll  sorry  be  if  you  return 

To  mock  me  with  their  scorn! 

I'd  like  to  make  these  trips  myself  — 

Rejoice  that  I  send  you. 
But  when  you  meet  the  editor, 

Oh,  mind  each  p.  and  q. 

[28] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


Good-bye.    Be  good,  be  bright; 

Stand  steady  on  your  "feet". 
Seem  clever,  wise,  and  don't  come  back 

Win  fame  and  fortune,  Sweet! 


[29J 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


MY  COUNTRY 

My  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
With  signs  on  every  tree, 

Of  thee  I  sing. 
Land  where  our  fathers  died 
Ere  cure-alls  loud  were  cried 
From  every  mountain  side, 

As  now  they  ring. 

My  native  country,  thee, 
Land  of  the  lettered  tree, 

Thy  words  I  love. 
I  love  thy  liver  pills, 
Thy  woods  with  cures  for  ills, 
My  heart  in  rapture  thrills 

For  purer  blood. 

Specifics  swell  the  breeze 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees 

In  morbid  song. 
And  Heinz's  beans  stay  baked, 
Pabst  beers  Milwaukee  make, 
And  rocks  their  silence  break 

To  right  what's  wrong. 

[30] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


Three  Sss  for  the  blood, 
Sapolio  cleaning  mud  — 

What  things  I  read  I 
Long  have  thy  children  cried 
"Castoria"  from  barn  side  — 
Oh,  country,  with  what  pride 

I  view  thy  greed! 


[31] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


MOVING 

Moving  is  one  of  those  things  in  which  a  very 
little  goes  a  great  way.  The  weather  has  been 
perfect,  and  movers  are  thankful  for  that.  It  is 
one  of  those  little  things,  like  "the  last  straw,"  that 
does  not  seem  of  prime  importance,  and  yet  has  ever 
so  much  influence.  A  tragedy  in  the  sunshine  of 
high  noon  is  never  quite  so  dreadful  as  in  a  dismal 
rain  or  at  murky  night;  and  moving  is  very  like  a 
tragedy.  It  is  most  distressing  to  tear  down  one's 
Lares  and  Penates ;  realize  how  one's  interests,  aims, 
and  affections  change  —  even  one  whose  boast  is 
consistency  —  and  to  see  the  dust  that  has  gathered 
on  the  back  side  of  some  of  those  dear  things !  And 
it  gives  one  a  pang  to  see  the  sifted  out  and  newly 
burnished  household  gods  away  from  their  old  house 
hold,  out  of  their  environment;  and  a  heartache  to 
visit  again  that  cleared  out  shell  that  was  once  - 
whether  amid  palaces  or  ever  so  humble  —  home. 
It  makes  you  feel  so  like  a  really  homeless  wanderer. 
And  then  it  is  dreadful  to  have  to  wear  dusty  clothes 
and  have  dirty  hands  and  face  for  days,  to  eat  pie 
on  a  trunk,  and  search  two  houses  for  a  hair  brush,  to 
spend  the  restful  evening  hours  on  a  stepladder 
hammering  nails  —  both  finger  and  tenpenny ;  and 

[32] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


to  tear  up  old  letters.  At  night,  these  fair  May 
nights,  one  who  has  moved  feels  like  a  transplanted 
tree,  with  just  about  as  many  limbs  as  a  tree  ought 
to  have,  and  all  of  them  weary. 


[83] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


LULLABY 

I 

While  the  stars  are  all  blinking,  the  tree  tops  all  nod, 

And  the  mother  sings  low  to  her  love, 

Then  the  baby-moon  sleeps  with  its  head  on  a  cloud 

And  the  angels  bring  dreams  from  above : 

Then  the  wind  whispers  low  as  it  hurries  along, 

And  it  covers  the  little  moon  tight,  — 

But  she  peeks  from  the  clothes,  for  she  loves  the 

wind's  song 
And  she  throws  to  the  earth  a  "Good  Night." 

Sleep  well,  little  moon,  on  your  soft  downy  bed 
For  the  night  so  soon  passes  away. 
And  the  wee  candle-star  that  now  shines  at  your  head 
Will  go  out  with  the  coming  of  day  1 

II 

There's  a  fair  little  child  that  is  falling  asleep 

While  the  moon  lies  so  still  on  the  sky, 

And  the  same  angels  guard  o'er  the  two  sleepers  keep 

And  the  wind  sings  the  same  lullaby. 

But  the  angels  must  cherish  the  little  child  best 

For  they  speak  in  the  dear  mother-kiss, 

[34] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


And  the  songs  which  she  sings  to  the  child  on  her 

breast 
Are  something  the  baby-moons  miss. 

Sleep  well,  little  child,  while  the  mother  is  near, 
For  too  soon  you'll  outgrow  lullabies, 
And  it  won't  be  so  easy  to  shut  out  all  fear 
When  then  closing  your  tired  little  eyes. 


[35; 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


CHRISTENING  HYMN 

For  J.  A.  S. 

Jan.  12,  1908. 

Jesus,  Saviour  dear, 

Thou  wast  once  a  child. 

Thou  dost  love  the  little  children, 

In  Thine  arms  Thou'st  held  and  blest  them 

Lo,  a  child  waits  here! 

Bless  her  Jesus  dear  - 

See,  we  hold  her  up! 

As  of  old  Thou  blest  the  children 

Put  Thine  arms  around  this  baby  — 

Bless  her,  Saviour  dear! 

Jesus,  Saviour  dear, 

When  a  little  Son 

Think  how  guarding  Mother  loved  Thee, 

Yet  God  kept  his  watch  above  Thee  — 

Guide  this  little  one. 


[36] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


SUNDAY  SCHOOL  CHRISTMAS  SONG 

In  a  lowly  manger,  far  across  the  sea, 
Lay  the  baby  Jesus,  on  His  Mother's  knee. 
In  His  home  above  us  greatly  must  He  love  us 
To  have  come  to  earth  a  little  babe  to  be. 

Chorus 

Christmas,  happy  Christmas, 

This  our  birthday  song: 
Let  us  be  good  children 

And  do  nothing  wrong. 

Wise  men  came  to  visit  baby  Jesus  fair, 

Kings  gave  birthday  presents  when  they  saw  Him 

there. 

Angels  sang  above  Him.    All  the  angels  love  Him; 
We  must  show  the  baby  Jesus  that  we  care. 

Chorus 

In  the  lowly  manger  baby  Jesus  lay 
As  a  Christmas  present  to  the  world  that  day. 
Never  was  He  dearer,  yet  He  was  no  nearer 
Than  He  always  is  when  little  children  pray. 

Chorus 

[37] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


Little  Christmas  Jesus,  once  a  child  like  me, 
Help  me  to  be  loving,  good,  and  kind  like  Thee; 

Always  to  be  pleasant, 

That  shall  be  my  present 
For  the  baby  Jesus  on  His  mother's  knee. 

Chorus 

Christmas,  happy  Christmas, 

This  our  birthday  song: 
We  will  be  good  children 
And  do  nothing  wrong. 


[38] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


EASTER  CAROL 

Death  is  conquered,  love  has  triumphed, 
Storm  old  death  with  fairest  flowers; 
Raise  aloft  the  Easter  chorus: 
Death  is  conquered,  Christ  is  for  us, 
Living,  ever  He  is  ours! 

White  clad  Easter  lilies  whisper 

Glorious  hopes  the  angels  gave: 
Trusting  wholly,  fear  defying, 
Love  lives  on  through  pain  and  dying, 

Christ  is  risen  from  the  grave ! 

Winter  passes,  spring  is  with  us, 
Flowers  are  pushing  where  was  snow, 

Still  love  conquers.     Shout  the  chorus: 
Death  is  vain  since  Christ  is  for  us, 
Christ  who  triumphed  long  ago ! 


[39] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


TRAVELING 

A  writer  says  that  no  one  outside  of  a  railroad 
ticket  office  can  have  any  idea  of  the  number  of 
"mental  travelers"  that  there  are,  of  the  mental 
trips  that  one's  friends  and  neighbors  are  constantly 
taking  in  one  direction  or  another  by  means  of  time 
tables  and  free  guides.  The  collecting  of  railroad 
literature  becomes  a  mania  with  some,  and  they 
study  the  pamphlets,  excursion  books,  and  so  on 
with  a  detail  that  gives  them  as  complete  and  per 
fect  a  knowledge  of  the  places  they  visit  only  in  their 
minds  as  though  they  had  actually  been  there.  - 
"They  can  discourse  fluently  upon  the  hotels  and 
principal  sights  of  the  city,  even  tell  you  of  the  trains 
and  the  connections  they  make,  or  describe  the  small 
stations  through  which  they  passed  in  going  there/' 
And  what  a  delightful  way  to  travel  it  is,  to  be  sure! 
No  heat,  no  dust,  no  missed  connections.  And  so 
cheap.  The  trains  are  never  late,  unless  you  wish 
that  they  would  be;  and  a  seat  in  a  drawing  room 
car  costs  you  no  more  than  a  seat  in  the  day  coach. 
You  may  eat  what  you  please  at  the  stations,  or  go 
into  the  dining  car.  You  never  have  to  wait  for  a 
place,  and  never  have  to  leave  anything  for  lack  of 
time.  Your  trunks  are  always  on  the  train  with  you, 

[40] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


the  weather  is  always  perfect.  You  have  the  most 
beautfiul  views,  get  vistas  of  curving  track  that  you 
never  would  see  on  a  real  train,  and  can  drive  to  the 
hotel  in  a  carriage.  You  are  even  better  off  than 
Peter  Ibbetson  with  the  beautiful  Duchess  of  Towers, 
for  he  must  have  had  rain  sometimes,  though  he 
could  not  feel  it ;  while  you  cannot  even  see  it.  Who 
that  can  make  of  his  easy  chair  a  private  car,  to 
carry  him  whither  he  pleases,  would  care  to  board  a 
stuffy,  crowded,  joggling,  dusty,  real  railroad  coach 
and  pay  for  the  privilege?  Oh,  wise  and  happy 
travelers,  to  whom  change  of  scene  is  so  much  easier 
than  change  of  air,  travel  far  and  merrily,  for  the 
world  is  yours,  and  be  envied  of  those  dull,  unimagi 
native  persons  who  are  restless  but  can  only  see 
things,  combinations  of  matter,  and  whose  spirits 
their  bodies  truly  imprison. 


[41] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


STREET  CAR  HORSE 

The  passing  of  the  horse,  his  disappearance  as  a 
motive  power,  has  been  sadly  overlooked.  The  pean 
of  the  still  plodding  tow  path  mule  has  been  sung, 
the  obituary  of  the  last  horse  car  has  been  written, 
the  memorial  of  the  stage  coach,  horses,  and  driver 
has  been  penned ;  but  who  has  thought  to  commemo 
rate  in  fitting  words  or  deeds  the  retirement  from  our 
streets  of  the  last  car  horse?  It  is  a  task  for  better 
pen  than  ours.  We  would  not  have  back  the  car 
horse  now.  The  supple,  spineless,  unfeeling  electric 
fluid  is  a  thousand  times  better  than  he,  and  yet 
how  we  miss  the  lazy  trot  of  the  horse,  his  patient 
amble,  the  gentle  tinkle  of  his  little  bell,  the  un 
dressed  look  of  his  puffing  sides  —  as  unadorned 
with  harness  as  a  dancer's  limbs  with  skirts!  And 
what  a  gentle  beast  he  was !  It  was  a  sight  to  draw 
the  tears  of  men  and  angels  to  see  him  strain  at 
starting,  but  once  the  car  was  rolling  how  chipperly 
he  skipped  along!  Few  fancy  steps  were  his,  but 
there  were  no  loiterings  by  the  way  side,  there  was 
no  nibbling  of  grass  and  bark.  Thoughtful  and  yet 
happy  at  the  consciousness  of  duty  done,  his  very 
face  was  an  inspiration  to  us  questioning,  grumbling, 
dissatisfied  human  laborers.  In  the  straight  and 

[42] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


narrow  path  he  trotted  on,  hardened  to  all  the  noises 
of  the  street,  taking  torpedoes  on  the  track  and  flying 
switches  with  unruffled  grace  —  without  ambition, 
without  discouragement,  his  passage  through  our 
thoroughfares  could  not,  indeed,  be  called  rapid 
transit,  nor  was  it  the  transit  of  Venus,  but  certainly 
it  was  a  providentially  arranged  transitory  embodi 
ment,  for  the  teaching  of  mankind,  of  abstract 
patience ! 


[43. 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


LENT 

The  deeper,  more  serious  side  of  Lent  is  one  to  be 
felt,  not  written  of.  Society  has  discovered  the 
season's  utilitarianism  and  for  forty  days  makes 
piety  fashionable  from  rational  rather  than  emotional 
motives.  But  there  is  a  good  deal  of  the  latter,  and 
as  the  days  are  kept  in  quietness,  abstinence  and 
thought,  does  not  the  true  Lenten  spirit  creep  where 
we  thought  the  shadow  lay  alone?  And  something 
of  the  holy  calm  comes  into  the  soul  tired  with  worldly 
gaiety,  comes  in  so  still  and  slowly  that  we  can 
scarcely  say  just  when  it  comes  or  how  it  goes.  The 
wild  rush  of  life;  the  stampede  for  honor,  riches,  and 
position;  is  slightly  lessened.  The  momentum  of 
the  year's  turmoil,  race,  and  struggle  bears  us  on 
ward  for  a  while,  but  without  adequate  further  im 
petus  it  lessens,  and  into  the  blessed  calm  of  Passion 
week  the  most  unecclesiastical  of  us  slips  without 
serious  jar.  Self-communion  in  an  easy  chair  is  a 
great  restraining  power,  and  the  feet  that  sped  over 
waxen  floors  turn  readily  to  the  straight  and  narrow 
path,  and  mansions  in  the  sky  take  the  place  in 
thought  of  dream  castles  in  dreamy  Spain.  A  little 
inward  reflection  reveals  an  inward  world  greater, 
grander,  more  important  than  the  world  to  which 

[44] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


we  give  so  many  of  our  days,  of  our  waking  and  sleep 
ing  thoughts,  and  it  is  almost  a  pity  that  the  forty 
days  of  Lent  should  be  so  brief.  But  we  are  in  the 
world  for  action,  and  so  we  must  return  to  the  work 
and  world;  and  Lent— in  the  cycle  of  the  months— 
is  but  a  reminder  that  the  work  must  be  good  in 
itself  and  have  a  worthy  object.  The  self  denial 
becomes  thus  not  wholly  selfish,  and  Lent  becomes  a 
season  borrowed  from  the  whirling  days  and  months 
in  which  to  make  psychical  repairs. 


[45] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


NEW  YEAR'S  RESOLUTIONS 

One  hears  less  now  than  formerly  about  New 
Year's  resolutions.  Ridicule,  cartoonists,  and  para- 
graphers  are,  no  doubt,  killing  the  custom;  but  prob 
ably  in  the  privacy  of  their  own  hearts  people  make 
as  many  good  vows  as  ever.  To  speak  of  the  vows 
would  be  to  court  laughter;  but  one  can  resolve  to 
reform  and  break  the  resolution  and  no  one  be  the 
wiser,  if  nothing  is  said.  In  the  aggregate  the  good 
resolves  made  on  the  year's  birthday,  and  one's  own 
birthday,  must  have  quite  a  beneficent  influence  upon 
us ;  but  they  are  very  unimportant  compared  to  the 
daily,  unceremonious,  and  often  unthought-out  reso 
lutions  of  life.  It  is  only  our  imagination  that  at 
taches  supreme  importance  to  them. 


[46] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


NEW  YEAR'S 

Now  that  New  Year's  Day  is  past  one  feels  that 
the  corner  has  been  turned,  and  nobody  doubts  that 
spring  is  coming  and  finally  lovely  summer.  But 
the  really  significant  change  took  place  several  days 
ago.  After  the  hours  of  daylight  had  been  growing 
shorter  and  shorter,  there  came  at  last  a  little  hesita 
tion,  the  shortest  day,  and  then  a  minute  more  of 
sunshine.  And  that  precious  minute  was  the  cor 
ner  stone  of  the  year  to  come,  the  first  victory  after 
many  defeats,  the  first  gain  that  light  had  made  over 
darkness,  in  the  long  losing  combat.  It  proved  that 
the  laws  of  the  heavens  could  be  depended  upon, 
that  light  would  conquer  darkness,  that  warmth 
would  overcome  the  cold,  and  that  flowers  would 
bloom  where  now  is  snow.  The  new  year  marks  the 
turning  point  for  men,  but  nature  had  already  turned ; 
and  the  twilight,  that  comes  a  little  later  now  and 
that  lingers  each  evening  a  little  longer  when  the 
sky  is  clear,  is  a  promise  of  victory,  written  in  scarlet 
and  gold,  where  all  men  may  see,  and  read,  and  learn 
to  hope. 


[47] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


CHRISTMAS 

It  is  human  nature  to  want  to  be  happy,  and  hap 
piness  is  the  main  thing  that  men  pursue,  day  in  and 
day  out,  all  the  year  round.  It  may  be  called  by 
various  names,  as  righteousness,  honor,  power,  and 
wealth,  but  whatever  its  name  it  is  happiness  of  some 
kind  or  other.  Through  the  whole  year,  except 
Christmas  day,  the  prize  is  sought  in  a  human  way. 
The  contestant  runs  and  runs  to  reach  the  end  of  the 
rainbow.  He  doesn't  mind  tripping  up  other  people 
who  threaten  to  pass  him,  and  he  never  takes  time  to 
stop  and  admire  the  scenery  as  he  hastens  by.  He 
does  not  even  wait  to  catch  his  breath,  and  every  lit 
tle  stone  in  bis  path,  or  small  ascent,  he  magnifies  an 
hundred  fold  because  he  thinks  it  delays  him.  And 
all  the  time  the  end  of  the  rainbow  seems  just  before 
him,  like  the  mirage  of  a  desert  oasis,  and  he  sees 
other  runners  tumbling  into  it  and  picking  up  bags 
of  bliss.  But  when,  breathless,  he  overtakes  these 
fellows,  he  finds  that  the  end  of  the  rainbow  is  still 
ahead,  and  that  what  he  thought  were  bags  of  bliss 
are  only  stones,  which  the  runners  are  throwing  out 
of  their  way.  They,  too,  see  phantom  runners  reach 
ing  the  phantom  goal,  and  when  he  who  thought  them 
phantoms  reaches  them,  they  try  to  trip  him  up, 

[48] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


and  so  prevent  his  reaching  the  end  of  the  rainbow. 
And  he  pushes  them  back,  and  they  wrestle  in  the 
path,  and  seem,  to  those  who  are  far  behind,  to  be 
tumbling  into  the  arc  of  promise!  It  is  a  weird, 
strange  race,  and  little  the  wonder  that  the  runners 
do  not  reach  the  goal.  There  are  a  few  who  take 
things  easily,  who  do  not  worry  about  the  goal,  but 
who,  sitting  by  the  wayside,  see  the  rainbow  colors 
all  about  them,  and  are  perfectly  content.  But  these 
men  are  very  few.  Now,  on  just  one  day  in  the  year, 
new  rules  govern  the  race.  The  contestants  try  to 
help,  instead  of  to  delay,  one  another.  They  try  to 
make  others  happy  instead  of  winning  happiness  for 
themselves;  and  lo!  A  miracle  happens.  The  end 
of  the  rainbow  comes  to  them.  On  no  day  in  the 
year  are  so  many  people  happy  as  on  Christmas  day, 
and  yet  on  that  day  human  rules  are  suspended  and 
we  try  to  make  others  happy.  When  a  star's  light 
shines  through  the  atmosphere  it  is  refracted  to  one 
side,  and  if  we  looked  directly  toward  the  star  noth 
ing  would  brighten  the  darkness.  But  look  to  one 
side  of  the  star,  and  the  star  appears;  try  to  win  hap 
piness  for  others  and  you  win  it  for  yourself.  It  is 
the  great  rule  given  divinely  to  those  who  cannot 
escape  the  social  law  of  refraction;  and  yet  only  on 
one  day  of  the  year  is  it  followed  by  all — and  that  is 
Christmas  Day. 

[49] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


CLASS  DAY  POEM 

Bertram-like  the  poet  slept, 
Or  seemed  to  sleep  and  saw 

A  weeping  spirit-maiden  stand 
And  hesitate  to  draw 

So  near,  though,  with  uplifted  hand, 
She  pleaded  love,  not  awe. 

Oh,  beautiful  the  vision  was, 
And  like  two  stars  her  eyes 

From  tender,  liquid  depths  shone  out, 
And  laughed  at  his  surprise, 

Until  a  wandering  cloudlet  doubt 
Passed  where  the  star  beams  rise. 

The  poet  started  in  his  sleep. 

"Oh  fair  one,  cease  to  mourn!" 
The  vision  turned,  but  as  the  sun 

Begems  the  dews  of  morn, 
A  tender  smile  seemed  just  begun  - 

Then  died  as  it  was  born. 

She  passed,  and  other  visions  came; 

But  none  so  fair  as  she 
Who,  in  the  moment  that  she  paused, 

[50] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


Had  smiled  entreatingly, 
And  left  him  wondering  what  had  caused 
Her  going  mournfully. 

Then,  arms  outstretched,  the  poet  cried, 

"Oh,  come  to  me  again, 
I  fain  would  see  thy  smile  once  more, 

And  chase  away  thy  pain; 
Would  feel  thy  presence  as  before, 

And  make  thee  queen,  to  reign." 

He  listened,  and  the  place  was  filled 
With  low  and  plaintive  chords, 

The  throbbing  of  the  harpstrings  they, 
Almost  like  human  words; 

And  then  they  slowly  passed  away, 
Like  notes  of  soaring  birds. 

Enrapt  the  dreamer  stood,  and  lo! 

Just  as  the  last  strain  died, 
A  voice  rang  out,  clear,  pure  and  sweet, 

He  felt  her  at  his  side! 
He  listened,  kneeling,  at  her  feet: 

And  thus  the  vision  cried : 

"In  vain  thou  ask'st.     It  cannot  be: 

Thine  own  ideal  am  I, 
The  offspring  of  thine  eager  heart  — 

[51] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


A  wish,  a  yearning  sigh 
Uncaptured  by  the  sculptor's  art 
And  only  born  to  die!" 

She  sobbed ;  he  felt  her  hot  tears  fall, 

But  ere  he  could  embrace 
The  vision  in  his  loving  arms, 

She  vanished  from  the  place: 
Yet  turned,  and  showed  once  more  her  charms, 

The  smile  upon  her  face. 

Up  rose  the  poet  with  new  zeal, 

New  purpose  in  his  eyes. 
No  dreamer,  now,  upon  his  knees; 

But  running  for  a  prize! 
Yet  ever,  as  her  hand  he'd  seize, 

The  vision  onward  flies! 

And  evermore  the  pleading  look, 

The  tear-dimmed  April  smile, 
Impelled  him  on  o'er  life's  rough  ways; 

Or  mountain  or  defile. 
So,  eager,  scorning  human  praise, 

He  pressed  on,  mile  by  mile. 

At  length  the  path  abruptly  ceased ; 

Foot-sore  and  weary  grown, 
Where  at  its  edge  Death's  river  flows, 

[52] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


He  fell  with  dying  moan. 
Beyond,  the  lovely  vision  rose, 
And  knew  him  as  her  own! 

And  lo!  across  the  sombre  waves 
Straight  to  his  side  she  sped, 

And  she,  for  whom  he'd  done  his  best, 
But  who  had  ever  fled, 

Now  on  her  fair,  soft,  heaving  breast, 
With  tears,  had  laid  his  head  — 

His  head,  now  moist  with  dews  of  death; 

While  on  his  brow  she  wound 
The  leaves  of  laurel  and  of  bay, 

And  with  her  arms  around 
Him  thus,  though  dead,  he  lay 

A  Poet  Victor-Crowned, 


[53] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


GRANDMOTHER'S  BALL  DRESS 

Touch  it  with  dainty  fingers,  lift  it  with  loving  care; 
Shake  out  the  soft  folds  gently  fearing  the  lace  may 

tear. 
Long  has  it  slept  forgotten  —  grandmother's  party 

dress, 
Dreaming  of  balls  and  weddings,  dreaming  her  old 

success. 

Notice  the  flowers  embroidered  over  the  thin  white 

skirt; 
Somebody's  hands  were  tireless,  somebody's  eyes 

were  hurt. 
Short  is  the  waist  —  a  hand's  breadth,  yet  it  is 

figured  too. 
How  many  stopped  to  notice,  —  grandfather,  say, 

did  you? 

Grandfather  does  not  answer,  portraits  must  silent 

be. 
But  surely  the  dress  remembers  whether  'twas  that 

night  he 
Danced  with  the  girl  who  wore  it,  whispered  his  love 

and  heard 
Just  a  faint  breath  in  answer,  wonderful  little  word ! 

[54] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


Look,  even  now  this  whisper  flutters  the  film  of  lace? 
Sees  it  in  us  the  sequel  to  grandfather's  earnest  face? 
That  is  too  much  to  ask  it;  what  can  a  wee  dress 

know 
Save  that  a  sweet  girl  wore  it,  once  in  the  long  ago? 

Beautiful   brown  haired  maiden,  plenty  of  beaux 

around 
Trying   to   win   her   favors,    desperate   when   she 

frowned ; 
Beautiful  eyes  that  sparkled,  heart  that  was  ever 

warm, 
That  is  the  way  it  knewher,boundtoher  tall,slight  form. 

Prithee,  sweet  Juliana,  weren't  you  a  little  vain 
Under  the  lamps  aswinging,  so  many  beaux  in  train, 
(Splitting   your    dances   bravely,    smoothing   your 

dainty  gown, 
Knowing  that  it  was  pretty,)  even  with  beaux  cast 

down? 

Grandmother's  grandchild  wears  it.     Some  one  has 

asked  a  dance. 
He  is  an  old  beau's  grandson,  seeking  the  beau's 

lost  chance. 
After  the  dance  is  granted  —  Ah,  the  old  dress  will 

dream 
Still  of  sweet  Juliana,  still  of  an  old  love  dream. 

[55] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  SEA 


"Fair  West  wind  when  you  leave  me, 
Blowing  over  the  sea, 
Sing  him  my  song  of  evening, 

Bid  him  'Good  Night'  for  me; 

"Tell  him  I  held  you  an  instant 
Tight  in  my  loving  arms, 
Gave  you  a  kiss,  insistent, 

Though  you  defied  my  charms; 

"Fill  out  his  sails  then,  dear  one, 
With  soft  breath  calm  the  sea, 
Whisper  my  prayers  and  fearing  — 

He'll  know  that  you  came  from  me." 


II 


Swiftly  seaward  sped  the  love  fraught  breeze, 

Fast  and  faster  still  it  blew, 
Till  the  great  blue  waves  were  white  with  foam 

Where  its  flying  feet  broke  through. 

[56] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


And  the  vessel  bearing  the  dear  one 

Scudded  swift  before  the  gale, 
With  its  decks  all  cleared  for  solemn  rites, 

And  the  wind  behind  its  sail. 

But  the  captain  ordered,  'all  sails  down' 
And  the  wind  no  longer  blew  — 

It  had  caught  the  ship,  and  calmed  the  sea, 
And  had  other  work  to  do. 

And  the  captain  ordered,  'Hands  on  deck/ 
And  the  anchor  dropped  at  eve. 

So  the  anchor  dropped  at  set  of  sun, 
When  the  stars  its  watch  relieve. 

Like  a  phantom  ship  the  vessel  lay 

In  the  quiet,  twilight  sea; 
And  the  stars  bent  low  o'er  sailless  yards 

Which  the  waves  rocked  dreamily. 

At  the  starboard  rail  the  sailors  met 

And  the  captain  said  a  prayer, 
For  the  dear  one's  form  was  cold  and  still 

Though  the  wind  still  tossed  its  hair ; 

And  they  let  him  down  with  sailor's  tears, 
For  the  sea's  the  sailors'  grave, 

But  the  wind  still  moaned  or  whispered  low 
Love  thoughts  to  the  shrouding  wave. 

[57] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  FIELDS  OF  FLANDERS 

The  long  straight  fields  of  Flanders 
Are  white  no  more  with  grain; 

We  are  sowing  them  with  crosses 
And  tears  fall  as  the  rain. 

Though  laborers  are  many, 

The  crops  too  slow  mature, 

For  the  harvest  sought  in  Flanders 
Is  peace  that  shall  endure. 

We  sow  the  fields  with  crosses  — 
Each  cross  a  resting  place 

Where  God's  peace  touches  Flanders 
To  fill  a  little  space. 

Those  spots  of  growing  number, 
All  wet  with  women's  tears, 

Must  bring  at  last  from  Flanders 
The  harvest  of  the  years. 


[58] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  DANUBE 

Far  up  in  the  Schwartz-wald  region, 
A  white  cloud  kissed  the  earth; 
And  the  tears  it  shed  at  parting, 
To  a  pure,  clear  stream,  gave  birth. 

The  hills  were  all  grim  and  solemn, 
The  rustling  trees  too  proud 
To  notice  the  little  streamlet, 
Born  of  a  weeping  cloud. 

But  thoughtless  it  flowed  on,  laughing; 
The  pain  which  gave  it  birth 
Had  made  it,  by  Love's  own  magic, 
A  river  of  ceaseless  mirth. 

Until,  where  the  green  fields  broaden, 
The  stream  more  placid  grows; 
And  seeking  the  blue  sky's  image, 
You  see  where  the  Danube  flows. 


[59] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


RIVERSIDE  DRIVE 

River  mists  and  skies  of  blue, 
Distant  hills  of  changing  hue, 
Whiffs  of  salt,  a  square  rigged  sail, 
Craft  that  leave  in  smoke  a  trail; — 
Splendid  city,  mighty  stream, 
Morning  walks  that  seem  a  dream 
Where  a  snowy,  sculptured  mass 
Whispers  "Courage"  as  you  pass. 


[60] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  SKY-SCRAPER 

Massive  and  gaunt, 
A  thing  to  haunt 

One's  dreams  on  a  restless  night, 
Your  walls  tower  high 
To  scrape  the  sky 

And  steal  from  the  street  its  light. 

Shadowy,  grim, 

A  peril  dim 
That  shuts  out  the  stars  and  sun, 

You  cast  a  shade 

To  make  afraid— 
Behold,  what  a  deed  we've  done! 

Yet  you  belong, 
So  bold  and  strong, 

To  things  that  must  stir  the  heart. 
Your  walls  arise 
To  touch  the  skies — 

Sprung  up  from  the  busy  mart. 

In  you  I  see 
The  bold,  the  free, 
The  courage  to  spread  the  wing. 

[61] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


So  they  aspire 
With  souls  afire 
Who  scorn  to  the  earth  to  cling. 

Then  bid  me  rise 

To  storm  the  skies, 
Progressing  from  mart  to  star ; 

From  gloomy  ways 

My  head  to  raise 
Like  yours, — where  the  calm  lights  are. 

And  give  me  might 

To  face  the  night 
Or  breast  the  relentless  storm, 

As  calm  as  you, 

As  patient,  true — 
Unshaken,  with  heart  as  warm. 


[62] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  UPLAND  MEADOW 

With  canter,  gallop,  and  head-toss  we  plunge  through 

the  sunbathed  air— 
The  scent  of  grass  in  our  nostrils,  the  wind  at  play 

in  our  hair. 
The  clouds  are  dancing  before  us,  the  shadows  chase 

o'er  the  plain, 
Then  on,  and  up  to  the  corner,  and  back  to  the  fence 

again ! 

With  canter,  gallop,  and  head-toss,  in  proof  that 

the  day  is  ours, 
We  kick  up  the  dust  behind  us,  we  stop  and  pluck 

at  the  flowers. 
We  look  far  down  to  the  valley  and  sigh  for  folk  who 

must  work — 
Then  on— a  race  to  the  corner,  and  back,  with  the 

stop  a  jerk! 

Or  limbs  grown  tired  in  the  gallop,  we  browse  where 

the  clover  grows; 
We  steep  ourselves  in  its  sweetness,  in  beauty  take 

our  repose. 

[63] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


The  crack  of  whip  and  the  sharp  command — bridle, 

check,  and  rein 
Are  far  away.    We  are  masters  now.    Ah,  what  a 

life  to  gain! 

They  can't  know  life  who  just  labor,  ne'er  shaking 

the  traces  free 
Nor  reaching  upland  meadows,  with  broader  vision 

to  see 
How  cramped  the  shadowy  valley  where  the  roads 

are  narrow,  while  here 
There's  all  the  pasture  to  run  in,  where  sun  and  the 

stars  are  near. 

Then  on,  and  up  to  the  corner,  and  back  to  the  fence 

again! 
The  clouds  are  dancing  before  us,  the  shadows  are 

in  the  plain! 
With  canter,  gallop,  and  head-toss  we  plunge  through 

the  sunbathed  air, 
The  scent  of  grass  in  the  nostrils,  behind  us  a  kick 

for  care! 


[64] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


HYMN  FOR  CHILDREN'S  DAY 

Jesus,  loving  Jesus, 
Children  come  to  Thee 
Marching  and  singing, 
Lovingly  bringing 
Flowers  gay  to  see. 
Jesus,  loving  Jesus, 

Children  come  to  Thee. 

Jesus,  loving  Jesus, 

All  the  world's  in  flower. 
June  is  at  brightest, 
Hearts  are  at  lightest  — 
Bless  this  happy  hour. 
Jesus,  loving  Jesus, 

Children  come  to  Thee. 

Jesus,  loving  Jesus, 
Though  we're  weak  and  frail, 
Round  us  is  Thine  arm 
Guarding  us  from  harm  — 

Thou  wilt  never  fail, 
Jesus,  loving  Jesus, 

When  we  come  to  Thee. 

[65] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  BIG  TREE  IN  MUIR  WOODS, 
CALIFORNIA 

Straight,  out  of  the  shadow,  rises  round,  brown  arm 
to  Thee, 

Strong,  lithe  and  up-straining,  expressing  the  heart 
of  a  tree. 

High,  far  in  the  sun-light,  Thy  smile  on  the  up 
turned  head, 

God,  hear  prayer  from  the  forest  and  song  from  the 
canon  bed. 


[60] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


SUNRISE 

The  sun  arose  in  his  glory, 
Majestic,  and  grand,  and  slow — 
The  king  of  earth  and  the  heavens 
Looked  down  on  the  earth  below. 

About  him  clouds  in  attendance, 
Awaiting  their  king's  command, 
Arrayed  in  scarlet  and  purple, 
With  lances  of  gold  in  hand. 

A  mist  arose  from  the  valley— 
As  smoke  from  the  victims  slain 
On  Nature's  numberless  altars 
For  her  lord  and  his  mighty  train. 

The  trees  bent  their  heads  in  silence, 
The  wind  blew  a  trumpet  blast, 
And  heralds,  riding  white  horses, 
Sped  over  the  heavens  fast. 

The  sun  had  come  in  his  glory, 
And  Nature  was  all  aglow — 
As — king  of  earth  and  the  heavens— 
He  gazed  on  the  world  below. 

[67] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


PERFECT  LOVE 

Look  into  my  eyes,  my  Love,  and  say  good-bye. 

Love  is  not  love,  save  as  it  hath  made  us  strong 

To  meet  stern  duties  that  remorseless  throng 

For  doing.     Some  may  fail,  but  you  and  I 

Should  be  invincible,  to  live  or  die; 

To  wage  firm  battle  against  sin  and  wrong; 

To  wait  —  that's  hardest,  dear,  however  long 

For  joys  withheld,  and  God  to  answer  why; 

To  say  good-bye,  if  we  must  parted  be. 

Had  we  but  half  loved,  then  we  might  complain 

For  parting  were  murdered  possibility. 

But  loving,  Love,  so  perfectly, 

We  dare  to  smile  at  parting's  pain. 


[68] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


WINNIE  DAVIS 

Under  the  Stars  and  Stripes, 

How  still  she  lies; 
How  pale  the  sunny  face, 

Death-closed  the  eyes. 
Outside,  a  people  mourn, 

Gray  coats  and  blue; 
Bands  play  a  solemn  dirge; 

Tears  all  unbidden  surge 
In  eyes  still  true. 

Under  the  Stars  and  Stripes, 

As  a  lily  fair, 
There  lies  a  girlish  form  — 

What  else  lies  there? 
Hush!    For  "The  Lost  Cause"  she 

Stood  brave  and  true. 
Faithful  her  woman's  heart; 

Love  filled,  from  hate  apart,  — 
Off,  caps  of  blue! 

Half-mast  the  Stars  and  Stripes 

Over  a  girl! 
Stilled  are  triumphal  shouts; 

Old  flags  we  furl, 

[69] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


Warm  hearts  beat  sadly  'neath 

Gray  coats  and  Blue. 
"Our  daughter,"  say  the  Gray; 

"Yours  and  ours;  One  to-day," 
Whisper  the  Blue. 


[70] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  WALTZ 

Oh,  sparkling  eyes  of  beauty 
Where  love  gleams  shyly  through ; 
Oh,  snowy  throats  fair  rounded, 
By  glistening  jewels  surrounded, 
And  then  by  soft  lace  bounded, 
I  yield  myself  to  you ! 

Oh,  flowers  on  warm  breasts  dying, 
You  thrill  me  with  your  scent  I 

The  music,  swift  entrancing; 

The  lights  the  scene  enhancing ; 

And  Strength  with  Beauty  dancing 
In  love's  abandonment  — 

Oh,  yielding  forms  of  beauty, 

Oh,  feet  that  spurn  the  floor  - 

While  grace  each  move's  adorning, 

Who  cares  for  Time's  cruel  warning? 

Let's  dance  on  till  the  morning  - 

Dance  on,  —  and  round  once  more ! 


[71] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


A  RAG  BAG 

A  little  bit  of  silk  and  a  tiny  bit  of  lace, 

Some  calico,  some  linen,  a  veil  that  touched  her  face ; 

And  here's  a  piece  of  ruffle  that  might  have  clasped 

her  throat  — 
That    beautiful,    that    tender,    that    snowy    little 

throat! 

Last  winter  at  a  party  she  wore  a  gown  of  this; 
I  told  her  that  I  loved  her  and  slyly  stole  a  kiss. 
The  roses  on  her  bosom  weren't  half  as  fair  as  she 
When  in  that  gown  of  pure  white  silk  she  said  she 
cared  for  me. 

The  flowers  were  all  about  her,  the  music  sounded 

low, 
The  dancing  was  half  over,  we  thought  we  ought  to 

go, 
But  I  —  oh,  well,  no  matter!     I'll  keep  the  piece  of 

silk. 
It  knows  the  whole  sweet  story  —  that  dainty  piece 

of  silk. 

This  lace,  ah,  sad  remembrance !    We'd  had  a  lover's 

fight. 
She  said  it  all  was  over  —  I  stayed  awake  all  night. 

[72] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


But  next  day,  when  I  saw  her,  I  claimed  that  I  had 

slept 
Until  that  tear-bathed  bit  of  lace  told  me  that  she 

had  wept. 

And  so  the  lacen  fragment  we'll  put  away,  my  dear. 
That  calico,  you're  holding,  an  apron  was  last  year, 
And  'round  her  waist  she  tightly  would  draw  its 

lucky  strings,  - 
Oh  yes,  I  want  to  save  it  among  the  other  things. 

The  linen,  well,  that  linen  perhaps  is  from  the  case 

Which  held  the  downy  pillow,  which  held  her  sleep 
ing  face; 

And  then  the  veil  which  touched  lips  where  only 
love  has  pressed, 

Why,  take  the  veil  and  linen  and  put  them  with  the 
rest! 

You  think  I'm  foolish,  do  you,  and  you'd  exchange 

for  tin 

Romantic  little  fragments  I  wrap  my  mem'ry  in? 
Ah,  well,  she  smiles  more  wisely,  for  she  knows  one 

who  knows 
A  bride  who's  unromantic,  but  keeps  last  winter's 

rose  I 


[73] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  TIRELESS  SENTINEL 

1A  tree  had  grown  in  the  neglected  moat  of  the  old, 
walled,  French  town." 

"Ho!  outpost,  what  are  the  tidings? 
What  see  you  on  the  plain? 

From  the  moat  run  dry 

Shout  back  the  cry ! 

Is't  fight  or  fly  - 
Can  we  make  stand  again?" 

The  outpost  stooping  and  straining, 
Peers  far  across  the  plain. 
"I  see  outspread 
A  million  head 
In  lines,". he  said  - 
"A  field  of  golden  grain." 

"Look,  outpost,  see  those  campfires 
Far  scattered  o'er  the  plain!" 
"I've  missed  no  light. 
The  stars  to-night 
Are  wondrous  bright  — 
They  gleam  above  the  grain." 

[74] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


'But,  outpost,  what  those  footfalls?  — 
Who  marches  in  the  plain?" 

"I  hear,"  he  said, 

"A  stealthy  tread"  - 

He  bowed  his  head  — 
"Love  walks  where  men  were  slain." 

'Then,  outpost,  why  yet  stand  guard; 
Your  patience,  what,  denotes?" 

"With  carried  arm 

To  still  alarm, 

For  none  shall  harm 
Where  poplars  watch  in  moats." 


175  [ 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


WHEN  PHYLLIS  IS  IN  TOWN 

When  Phyllis  is  in  town  the  city  is  no  longer  aus 
tere  and  dignified.  It  becomes  bewitching.  Love 
is  always  full  of  sweet  surprises,  but  at  this  time  one 
may  chance  on  a  surprise  at  any  moment  and  at  any 
turn  — for  Phyllis  may  be  there!  When  Phyllis  is 
in  town  the  very  streets  are  glorified  because  she 
walks  upon  them;  the  trolley  cars  are  possible  char 
iots  since  her  dainty  foot  may  mount  the  steps; 
and  every  closed  carriage  is  worth  looking  into,  lest 
her  dear  face  be  hidden  in  its  shadows.  You  cannot 
know  whether  she  may  not  be  just  around  the  cor 
ner,  and  whether,  most  tantalizing  secret,  she  be  in 
the  crowd  before  you  or  behind  you!  Because  she 
may  be  anywhere,  her  presence  pervades  the  city. 

When  Phyllis  is  in  town,  the  windows  of  the 
florists  tug  at  heart-strings  and  at  purse  strings; 
the  confectioners'  tempting  trays  plead  sweetly  for 
the  little  mouth;  the  windows  of  the  milliners  un- 
accustomedly  attract,  for  in  them  are  plumes,  of 
which  one  may  get  on  Phyllis's  hat;  the  windows  of 
the  jewelers  fascinate,  for  in  them  are  wedding- 
rings  ;  and  as  to  the  windows  of  the  great  department 
stores,  showing  petticoats  galore  —  ah,  what  thump 
ing  of  the  heart,  what  furtive  glances,  lest  Phyllis 

[76] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


be  somewhere  looking!  Shall  we  ever  see  Phyllis  and 
such  things  together  ?  Can  the  thought  be  ventured  ? 

When  Phyllis  is  in  town  the  music  of  her  voice  is 
in  every  tingle  of  the  telephone,  because  —  perhaps 
—  she  asked  that  it  should  ring;  the  crowds  are 
gayer  and  walk  more  blithely,  since  she  may  be  there ; 
and  the  church  has  a  strangely  romantic  fascination 
where  Phyllis  sings,  demurely  listens,  or  kneels  in 
prayer.  Dear  Phyllis,  what  has  she  to  pray  for  if  it 
be  not  to  intercede  for  you! 

When  Phyllis  is  in  town,  the  changes  of  the 
weather  create  a  picture-gallery.  It  never  rains  that 
you  do  not  have  a  vision  of  tight  curls,  a  halo  of 
unbrella,  a  rain-coat  and  the  lower  portion  of  a  little 
pair  of  shoes.  The  skies  are  never  blue  and  the 
weather  warm,  that  you  do  not  see  the  fluttering 
flounces  of  a  summer  gown  that  tantalize  and  fasci 
nate  by  their  unsteadiness.  And  when  the  snow 
flies  and  the  wind  blows  cold,  two  eyes  peer  laugh 
ingly  above  a  muff. 

When  Phyllis  is  in  town,  the  world  is  such  a  great 
big  funny  spectacle  for  you  and  her  to  look  and  laugh 
at;  and  when  she  goes,  it  is  such  a  dreary,  solemn 
drama! 


[77] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


GOING  AWAY 

There  are  few  cities  in  this  country  where  there 
are  as  many  literary  clubs,  or  as  much  literary  and 
social  discussion  as  in  Hartford,  Conn.  The  result 
is  easy  to  see.  For  a  small  city  Hartford  has  fur 
nished  us  with  a  surprisingly  large  number  of  litter- 
ati,  and  famous  lawyers  and  clergymen.  In  one  of 
the  clubs  the  subject  of  discussion  say s  the  Courant, 
was  "The  Curse."  One,  who  was  fond  of  gardening 
and  reading  the  Bible,  said  it  was  weeds  and  thistles, 
another  more  original  and  very  serious,  said,  "It  is 
going  away."  This  was  the  first  thing  that  the  angel 
with  the  sword  told  Adam  and  Eve  to  do,  and  it  has 
been  going  on  ever  since.  Just  as  we  begin  to  find 
what  Eden  is  and  what  sort  of  trees  grow  in  it,  there 
comes  a  two  edged  sword,  and  away  we  have  to  go. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  this,  but  more,  prob 
ably,  for  some  temperaments  than  others.  Some 
people  seem  never  so  happy  as  when  they  are  going 
away,  but  most  of  us  have  more  of  the  vegetable  in 
us.  We  have  only  to  be  in  one  place  for  a  little  while 
to  become  attached  to  it  —  to  feel  our  affection,  like 
tendrils,  winding  about  its  persons  and  places  and 
binding  us  to  them  with  cords  of  friendships  and  love. 
The  breaking  away  seems  hard  and  cruel,  the  roots 

[78] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


that  are  holding  us  tightly  must  be  cut  off  sharp,  and 
the  tendrils,  be  they  ever  so  gently  untwisted,  will 
still  hang  in  rings  that,  alas,  are  empty.  Nor  is  the 
suffering  selfish,  only ;  we  must  break  or  untwist  the 
tendrils  that  others  have  wound  about  us,  and  how 
ever  charming  and  attractive  the  new  places  prove, 
there  will  still  be  spots  in  our  being  which  the  new 
cords  do  not  touch;  and  our  own  affections  will  find, 
always,  something  in  the  new  that  differs  from  the  old 
we  had  learned  to  love.  There  are  times,  of  course, 
when  going  away  is  a  relief.  The  gambler,  who  went 
to  a  Sunday  School  picnic  when  he  thought  he  was 
going  to  a  prize  fight,  was  so  glad  to  get  back  that 
he  was  glad  he  went;  but  even  in  his  case  the  joy 
of  the  second  departure  was  due  to  the  misery  of  the 
first.  We  Americans  are  called  nomadic,  but  most 
of  us  always  turn  up  again,  at  the  old  stand,  and 
ready  to  sing,  with  all  our  hearts,  our  national 
"Home  Sweet  Home." 


[79] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  REPLY 

(Maud  S.  to  Nancy  Hanks) 

Dear  Nancy,  I've  received  your  note, 
And  Nan,  it  really  made  me  titter ! 
You  felt  so  gleeful  when  you  wrote 
You  never  guessed  the  pill  was  bitter  — 
At  least  to  Sunol.     I,  of  course, 
Know  envy's  far  beneath  a  horse. 

Yes  Nancy  Hanks,  you're  very  fast; 

But  ah,  Maud  S.  was  once  a  hummer! 
I  don't  think  Nancy,  if  you  da'st 
You  could  your  record  smash  this  summer, 
As  I  did  in  a  season  dear, 
And  four  times  —  five  times  very  near ! 

Old  horses,  like  old  ladies,  find 

Their  former  conquest  quite  diverting, 
My  "wild  oats"   —  your's  may  prove  that  kind 
All  blossomed  laurels;  but  no  more  reverting! 
A  "bud,"  you  may  think  Maud  S.  slow, 
But  money's  made  the  old  mare  go! 

I  only  meant  to  show  in  this 
That  though  I  follow  where  you're  going, 

[80] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


You  cannot  call  me  "sulky,"  miss, 
Although  I  am  tired  with  your  blowing. 
Goodbye  then,  dear,  you  lead  the  race, 
2.07's  the  record  —  2.08  my  pace! 

2.08,  three-quarters,  how  men  stared! 

They  even  said,  "Twas  Maud  S.  taught  her," 
When  little  boys  your  time  compared  - 
You  claimed  2.07-^? 

Best  wishes,  Nan.     You've  earned  my  laud, 
In  haste,  your  fast  and  close,  friend,  Maud. 


[81] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


PREMEDITATED  SUICIDE 

I  ask  a  glass  of  water  or  of  claret  or  of  beer ; 

I  go  to  kiss  a  pretty  maid;  she  turns  away  with  fear. 

I  eat  some  lemon-jelly  that's  been  standing  on  the 

sill, 
And  they  tell  me  all   are  loaded  —  that  they're 

warranted  to  kill. 

I  put  a  pencil  to  my  lips ;  I  gulp  down  pounds  of  air ; 
I  visit  all  the  cattle  at  the  Wayback  county  fair. 
I  buy  a  paper  of  a  boy  and  handle  dollar  bills, 
And  they  tell  me  every  one  of  these  has  that  on  it 
which  kills. 

I'm  not  much  up  in  science,  but  I  know  a  thing  or 

two; 

I  know  that  if  I  do  not  eat  or  drink  or  kiss  a  few 
Of  those  fashionable  dreaded  germs  I  certainly  will 

die, 
For  I'd  have  to  give  up  breathing  to  escape  the 

bacilli. 

Bacteria,  bacteria!    I'm  not  afraid  of  you. 
The  world  will  roll  around  the  sun  for  all  that  you 
can  do; 

[82] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


So  on  dollars  and  on  papers  and  on  kisses  and  on  food 
Just  hand  me  common  bacilli  —  I'm  not  a  science 
dude. 

And  what's  the  use  of  living  if  you  cannot  eat  or 

drink; 

If  pretty  girls  and  dollar  bills,  and  even  printer's  ink 
And  county  fairs  and  pencils  are  only  other  terms 
For  the  rapid-transit  system  of  the  scientific  germs? 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


KISSING 

Why  is  kissing  so  pleasant? 

Kesmack,  kesmack! 
One  gives  away  something  - 
And  gets  it  back! 
He  purses  his  lips, 

She  shuts  her  eyes, 
He  presents  their  tips  - 

To  her  great  surprise! 
And  then,  in  a  moment,  it's  done  - 
Or,  rather,  it's  just  begun. 

Kesmack,  kesmack! 

There's  never  a  lack 
Of  reasons  why  kissing  is  pleasant. 

And  kissing  ought  to  be  pleasant  — 

Kesmack,  kesmack! 
There  are  certain  nerves  to  be  tickled 

(And  tickled  back!)  — 
The  nerves  of  the  jaws, 

The  lips  and  teeth, 
If  touching,  cause  - 

So  pedants  teach  - 
Electrical  currents  that  thrill, 

[84] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


Whatever  or  not  the  will. 

So  smack!  kesmack! 

There  can't  be  a  lack 
Of  reasons  why  kissing  is  pleasant. 


[85] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


AUTUMN  DAYS  AND  DAWN 

We  have  been  having  some  perfect  autumn  days, 
the  slow  and  tender  beginning  of  the  postlude  of  the 
year,  the  rest  between  the  fruitage  and  dissolution, 
the  tranquil  twilight  before  the  winter  darkness 
drives  away  the  summer  light.  And  while  these 
slow  days  fade,  and  the  glory  of  the  foliage  falls, 
and  the  night  draws  closer  to  the  morning,  until  the 
autumn  sunshine  gleams  like  a  tinted,  wavering  opal 
caught  in  sombre  setting,  we  enthuse  about  the 
beauty  of  the  sunset;  the  softness  of  the  color  so 
magically  painted  by  the  autumn  haze.  But  one 
should  see  the  rarer,  softer  loveliness  of  the  dawning ! 
It  is  easy  enough  to  see  it  now,  and  many  have  to, 
for  as  late  as  6  o'clock  it  is  at  the  full  tide.  The  glow 
begins  so  mildly,  in  power  and  dominion  rises  so  tran 
quilly  over  the  eastern  sky,  that  gentleness  more  than 
irresistibleness  seems  its  dominant  quality.  The 
little  suggestion  of  color,  the  soft  diffusion  of  the 
light,  which  is  not  yet  a  glow,  the  warming  of  the 
sky,  are  like  the  gentle  crescendo  of  music.  And  as 
it  rises  the  dominant  chord  appears,  and  thrills, 
and  leads  at  last!  It  is  not  Aurora  driving  her 
chariot  over  the  sky,  but  the  dream  of  Aurora; 
and  suddenly  the  dream,  ever  more  vivid  and  lovely, 

[86] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


is  realized.  Then  the  last  of  the  stars  fade  away, 
that  beautiful  gentle  morning  star  that  had  shone  in 
the  East  like  the  gleaming  tip  of  a  spear,  born  by  a 
martial  herald  of  day!  There  is  a  promise  fulfilled, 
a  new  life  begun. 


[87] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


ALUMNI  AND  COMMENCEMENT 

A  college  commencement  is  the  meeting  time  on 
common  ground  of  old  and  new  alumni.  Graduates 
of  many  years'  standing,  veterans  in  many  a  battle 
of  life,  gainers  and  losers  of  youths'  ideals,  here  meet 
and  alike  extend  the  hand  of  fellowship  and  sympathy 
to  the  confident  young  men  and  women  who  have 
still  so  much  to  learn.  Is  it  altogether  just  and 
wisest,  then,  that  the  younger  graduates  should  do 
the  talking?  Theirs  be  the  flowers,  the  diplomas, 
and  medals;  theirs  to  a  slight  extent  the  chance  to 
show  high  ideals,  to  express  high  courage,  and 
thought,  and  purpose;  but  more  of  the  speaking 
should  be  from  the  victors  in  life's  race,  from  those 
of  the  alumni  whose  fine  deeds  have  raised  high  their 
own  name  and  that  of  the  college.  Let  theirs  be 
the  glory  on  commencement  day.  The  college  that 
gives  them  degrees  of  honor  has  not  done  all  that  it 
might.  Let  it  ask  them  to  speak  to  the  young  grad 
uates  and  to  their  brother  alumni  on  a  question  of 
the  day,  let  it  stimulate  them  to  the  best  expression 
of  their  highest  thought.  More  than  half  the  pride 
of  an  institution,  the  glamor  that  it  has  for  the  young, 
is  iii  the  prominence  of  this  and  that  alumnus.  The 
names  of  such  are  inspiring  to  every  student,  their 

188] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


careers  a  recommendation  of  the  college.  While 
they  live  they  have  the  power,  by  throwing  heart 
and  soul  into  a  ringing  address,  to  create  real  intellec 
tual  enthusiasm  among  faculty,  graduates,  and  un 
dergraduates  that  shall  redound  to  their  own  fame, 
to  the  honor  of  the  college  and  to  the  betterment  of 
the  world.  Broader  and  stronger  than  that  of  the 
speech  of  ever  so  bright  a  senior  must  be  the  influence 
of  their  addresses;  for  he  who  sees  an  ideal  has 
something  to  dream  of,  he  who  wills  to  gain  it  some 
thing  to  whisper;  but  he  who  has  attained  what 
youth  dreamt  and  manhood  willed  should  be  asked 
to  cry  out  his  victory,  to  point  the  way  with  its  pit 
falls  and  aids  to  those  who  struggle  in  weariness,  and 
to  those  others  so  full  of  hope  but  whose  journey  is 
only  begun.  Then  we  should  see  what  a  college 
education  can  do  for  a  man ;  commencements  would 
gain  a  popular  interest;  the  young  graduates  would 
enter  the  contest  of  life  with  a  better  understanding 
of  the  fierceness  of  the  struggle  and  the  grandeur  of 
victory;  while,  above  all,  the  stimulus  of  the  college 
to  fine  deeds  and  finer  endeavor  would  extend  be 
yond  the  college  halls,  beyond  the  beginning  of  the 
new  life  to  which  commencement  is  the  portal. 
The  last  lesson  would  be  the  most  helpful  and  the 
grandest  in  the  college  course. 


[89] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  LOOK  OF  LOVE 

You  ask  me  the  color  of  her  eyes, 
But  though  I  often  gaze  I  cannot  tell. 

For  whether  joy  and  love  and  sweet  surprise, 
Trembling  there  in  maiden  shyness  dwell, 
Is  the  matter  I  most  prize. 

You  ask  me  if  she  be  dark  or  fair, 

If  she  be  tall  or  short,  and  what  the  tint 

Of  her  long,  waving  silken,  sun-kissed  hair; 
And  though  I  look  and,  looking,  know  no  stint, 
I  have  to  say  I  do  not  care. 

For  would  I  love  her  less  if  she  were  dead? 

Yet  then  I  should  not  see  her  veiled  eyes 
And  all  the  color  from  her  pale  cheeks  fled 

Would  leave  me  not  the  beauty.     Nor  where  lies 
Her  still  form  would  love's  dreams  be  led. 

I  still  should  love  her,  and  in  thought  I'd  see 
Not  eyes  of  blue  nor  curling  hair  of  gold, 

Nor  estimate  her  height;  but,  calling  me 

With  some  loved  name,  I'd  hear  her,  and  behold 
Her  as  she  still  is  —  untold ! 


[90] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


HER  OPAL  RING 

Like  my  lady's  self  is  her  opal  ring, 
Reautiful  and  rare,  bright  and  glittering. 
Brilliant  as  a  jewel  caught  in  golden  band, 
(Like  the  opal's  self  on  her  snowy  hand), 
Flashing  as  a  star  in  a  summer  sky, 
Gleam  my  lady's  eyes,  when  th'are  others  by. 

Like  my  lady's  self  is  her  opal  ring, 
Beautiful  and  fair,  mildly  glittering. 
Soft  as  eyes  that  gaze  into  eyes  that  love, 
Tender  as  the  glow  of  setting  sun  above. 
Lovely  as  a  rose  dying  on  the  heart 
Is  my  lady's  glance  —  all  the  world  apart. 

Like  my  lady's  self  is  her  opal  ring, 
Beautiful  and  rare,  coldly  glittering, 
Changing  as  the  waves  on  a  sea  of  blue, 
As  a  cloudy  sky  where  the  moon  shines  through, 
Yet,  in  every  light,  mid  each  changing  tone, 
There  still  shines  one  ray  born  for  me  alone ! 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


TO  MY  LOVE 

Softly  retreating  the  shadows, 
Chasing  each  other  at  will, 
Flee  from  the  stab  of  the  moonbeam 
Playing  on  casement  and  sill. 

Silently  fly,  Oh,  ye  shadows! 

Silently  dance,  Oh,  ye  beams! 

There  a  fair  maiden  is  sleeping, 

There  my  beloved  one  dreams. 

Gently  the  breezes  are  blowing, 
Bending  the  trees  as  they  pass. 
Softly  the  dew,  in  descending, 
Kisses  the  flowers  and  the  grass. 

Silently  fall,  Oh,  ye  dew  drops! 

Silently  blow,  gentle  breeze ! 
There  a  fair  maiden  is  sleeping  - 

Quietly  bend,  oh,  ye  trees! 


[92] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


A  LUNAR  TELEPHONE 

The  lamps  of  heaven  are  lighted, 
The  pale  moon  smiles  above  - 

She  smiles  at  me  —  waking,  watching 
She  smiles  at  my  sleeping  love. 

Oh  moon !  you  know  not  your  fortune, 
Or  how  could  you  scorn  the  treat 

Of  seeing  my  love,  forever, 
Of  giving  her  kisses  sweet? 

You  kiss  her  cheek,  and  care  not, 
You  stroke  her  pretty  hand  - 

Oh  moon!  you  are  cold  and  heartless. 
But  why  don't  you  understand? 

Perhaps  you  do,  for  you  send  me 
For  wires,  some  silvery  beams. 

Through  which  my  love  I'll  whisper 
For  you  to  repeat  in  dreams. 


]93] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


MY  CASTLE 

I  own  a  most  beautiful  castle,  — 

But  its  only  ''a  castle  in  Spain." 
Its  walls  are  all  ivied  and  hoary, 
And  every  stone  has  its  story. 
A  tale  of  my  ancestors'  glory, 

In  my  beautiful  "castle  in  Spain." 

I  walk  in  the  park  of  my  castle,  — 

My  mystic  old  "castle  in  Spain" 
I  walk  with  a  girl  tall  and  slender, 
I  whisper  my  sentiments  tender 
And  bid  her  at  once  to  surrender, 

Which  she  does  —  in  my  "castle  in  Spain." 

But  here  in  my  newspaper  office, 

So  far  from  my  "castle  in  Spain." 

I  find  a  great  change  in  condition, 

I'm  oppressed  with  a  vague  intuition 

That  perhaps  it  was  all  just  a  vision, 

And  I'll  ne'er  see  my  castle  again. 


[94] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


WITH  SOME  ROSES 

Oh,  ye  dainty,  pretty  rosebuds, 
Tinted  with  a  sunset  glow, 
As  if  Nature's  blushes,  captured, 
Lingered  ere  you  let  them  go. 

How  I  envy  you  your  fortune! 
Would  that  I  were  one  of  you! 
Just  to  feel  her  love  around  me, 
Then  to  die,  as  you  will  do. 

Rocked  to  sleep,  as  she  will  rock  you 
With  the  motion  of  her  breast; 
Kissed  by  all  her  gentle  breathings, 
Thus  to  leave  all  love's  unrest. 


[95] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  NEW  YEAR 

When,  with  thought  of  the  passing  old  year  and 
the  entrance  of  the  new,  we  shout  "The  king  is  dead; 
long  live  the  king!"  do  we  realize  with  what  accu 
racy  we  speak?  For  the  fact  is,  the  calendar  is  our 
master,  is  the  tyrant  of  the  age.  Fortunately,  it  is 
never  passionate.  We  speak  of  time  flying;  but  we 
know  that  it  is  not  true.  Leaf  by  leaf,  steadily, 
quietly,  never  faster,  never  slower,  the  calendar 
marks  the  passage  of  the  days.  One  may  have  had  a 
very  happy  year;  but  one  cannot  say  that  the  ty 
rant  has  been  kind.  He  has  been  pitiless,  merciless. 
The  day  we  dreaded  has  come  as  surely  and  relent 
lessly  as  the  day  we  longed  for.  Stern,  unyielding, 
unsympathetic,  our  tyrant — careless  of  good  and  ill, 
of  joy  and  sorrow,  of  press  of  work  or  idleness — has 
been  unmoved  by  any  wish,  and  has  ruled  us  with  a 
tyrant's  rod.  The  tyrant  has,  however,  been  abso 
lutely  just.  Every  day  we  looked  for  has  come 
around,  has  come  and  gone  precisely  on  scheduled 
time;  and  if  we  have  not  done  all  we  meant  to  do  on 
some  occasion,  it  has  not  been  from  any  deviation 
of  the  calendar  from  the  precise  programme  outlined 
twelve  long  months  ago.  We  have  wished  that  the 
days  and  nights  would  hurry  sometimes,  we  have 

[96] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


longed  to  detain  them;  but  our  tyrant  never  yields. 
Hung  on  the  wall,  standing  on  the  desk,  disguised  in 
satins  and  silks,  adorned  with  painted  flowers,  or  in 
the  guise  of  well-known  men  or  women — we  its  min 
ions,  the  clocks  and  watches  its  police — the  calendar 
has  been  the  tyrant  of  the  age. 

With  so  many  the  new  year  calendar  is  a  Christ 
mas  present,  that  the  sense  of  strangeness  and  the 
novelty  have  quite  worn  off  by  New  Year's  day,  and 
so  transition  from  the  old  year  to  the  new  is  made 
with  little  shock  or  sense  of  wonderment.  But 
whenever  the  new  year  calendar  is  taken  for  the  first 
time  in  one's  hands,  it  is  with  a  very  natural  and  fit 
ting — if  somewhat  shamefacedly  brief  and  hidden — 
mingling  of  curiosity  and  dread.  Who  has  not,  idly 
turning  the  pages,  wondered  which  are  the  days  that 
are  destined  to  stand  out  in  memory;  which  is  to  be 
the  happiest  and  which  the  saddest  day  of  the  year; 
and  what  is  to  be  the  particular  nature  of  its  joy  or 
grief?  A  yellow  journal  of  New  York— which  is  to 
say  one  seeking  popularity  very  desperately — has 
offered  a  prize  to  the  reader  who  shall  most  accu 
rately  forecast  the  most  notable  events  of  1898.  The 
circumstance  is  evidence  of  how  general  is  a  secret 
wonderment  regarding  what  the  opening  year  may 
have  in  store  for  individual  and  the  world,  what  se 
crets  are  enfolded  in  the  calendar's  non-committal 


[97] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


leaves,  what  will  be  our  verdict  when  all  its  history 
is  written,  when  the  year's  work  is  done.  Some 
there  are,  curiously  turning  the  calendar  leaves,  who 
pause  all  unconscious  on  a  day  that  they  will  never 
see.  But  no  warning  is  written  on  the  page,  no  hint 
that  there  the  calendar  stops  for  them. 


[981 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


SUNSET 

The  sun  had  just  set  and  all  the  western  sky  was 
aglow  with  yellow  that  shaded  into  orange.  There 
was  not  a  cloud  to  be  seen,  except  far  away  to  the 
north,  where  a  thin  gray  film  hung,  like  the  blown 
away  veil  of  a  Quakeress.  Overhead  the  brilliant 
western  gold,  speaking  of  glorious  promise,  faded  by 
infinitely  fine  degrees  into  a  soft  and  deepening  blue ; 
and  just  in  the  midst  of  her  dreamy  sea  the  white 
moon  rode,  sedate  and  silent,  with  a  single  golden 
star,  that  might  have  dropped  overboard,  from  her 
possible  cargo  of  jewels.  The  air  was  still,  clear,  and 
cool,  and  in  the  quieter  streets  the  snow  glistened  in 
the  moonlight,  just  as  it  does  in  mid-winter.  The 
night,  too,  was  glorious,  fulfilling  in  its  peaceful 
serenity  the  promise  of  the  evening. 


[99] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


IDOL  REPAIRING 

A  China  correspondent  writes  to  the  Independent 
of  the  itinerant  idol  repairers  of  the  East.  These 
men,  journeying  from  temple  to  temple  in  the  rural 
districts,  repair  the  shrunken  forms,  broken  legs  and 
arms,  worn  whiskers,  and  cracked  heads  of  the 
Chinese  idols.  The  worshippers  take  the  need  of 
repairs  on  the  part  of  their  gods  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  doubtless  are  filled  with  new  zeal  and  devotion 
when  the  itinerant  mender  completes  his  labors. 
Usually  the  cost  is  met  by  one  afflicted  with  an  evil 
spirit,  who  thinks  thus  to  rid  himself  of  the  unwel 
come  guest.  What  a  blessing  it  would  be  if  we  could 
have  idol  repairers!  What  vast  sums  would  gladly 
be  paid  the  man  who  could  set  up  again  our  fallen 
gods,  who  could  give  them  the  strength  and  beauty 
that  they  had  when  new !  Rut  we  are  more  exacting 
than  simple  John  Chinaman.  We  are  not  content 
that  our  deities  should  wear  out,  however  hard  we 
use  them;  and  once  worn  their  divinity  is  gone  for 
ever.  How  many  times  an  idol  slips  and  falls.  It  is 
not  seriously,  permanently,  hurt.  The  Chinaman 
would  mend  the  broken  leg  and  set  it  up  again,  but 
we  lose  hope  and  faith.  A  single  slip  destroys  divin 
ity,  and  henceforth  we  are  unhappy  believing  that 

[100] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


our  idols  have  proved  false.  We  should  be  happier 
in  the  long  run  if  we  did  not  expect  in  our  gods  more 
than  flesh  and  blood  can  give;  if  we  admitted  the 
human  tendency  to  error;  and  granted  that,  for  all 
the  slips,  the  heart  might  still  be  good,  just  as  the 
scent  is  unharmed  by  crushing  the  flower,  and  the 
divinity  of  the  Chinese  idol  undestroyed  by  its 
broken  form.  But  while  faith  lasted  it  would  be  less 
high  and  pure,  and  it  is  something,  though  we  end 
on  earth  together,  to  have  been  the  one  nearest 
heaven. 


[101] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


VACATIONS 

The  Buffalo  "Express"  says:  "Have  an  aim  in 
your  vacation,"  and  there  are  no  better  words  to 
say  at  a  better  time.  There  is  nothing  quite  so 
dreary  as  a  purposeless  vacation,  nothing  so  tiring 
as  a  loll.  When  you  are  at  your  desk,  with  a  pile  of 
work  before  you  so  high  that  you  can  hardly  see  the 
green  fields,  or  hear  the  noise  of  the  surf,  or  smell  the 
pine  woods,  that  all  lie  beyond ;  it  seems  to  you  that  a 
rest  would  be  an  ideal  vacation.  But  unless  you 
really  are  sick  you  will  be  happier  for  something  to 
do.  It  does  not  make  much  difference  what  you 
do.  Very  likely  your  daily  work  does  not  shake  the 
earth;  but  even  if  it  does,  the  earth  doesn't  expect 
you  to  shake  it  with  no  intermission,  and  you  are 
quite  free  to  do  as  you  please  on  a  vacation.  And 
then,  as  the  "Express"  says,  "The  man  who  climbs 
a  mountain  for  the  mere  sake  of  getting  to  the  top, 
may  not  thereby  offer  anything  to  science  or  philan 
thropy;  but  the  chances  are  that  in  his  own  stimu 
lated  mental  and  physical  condition  he  has  done 
something  toward  the  betterment  of  the  human 
average."  It  sounds  far-fetched  perhaps,  but  any 
philosopher  will  say  it  is  true.  And  of  course  that 
settles  the  matter.  So,  when  you  go  off  on  your 

[102] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


vacation,  have  an  object  in  view.  Collect  rocks 
or  mosquitoes,  ride  a  bicycle  somewhere,  fish  as 
though  you  had  to  feed  an  army  on  a  Friday,  or 
walk  and  climb.  Very  likely  the  reason  that  Youth 
so  prizes  its  vacation  as  compared  with  Age,  is  that 
Youth  lets  its  energy  drive  it  to  something,  while 
Age  is  lazy.  One  is  tempted  to  think  that  the  young 
people  who  work  so  hard  for  their  fun,  have,  after  all, 
the  true  secret  of  resting. 


[103] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


SUMMER  AND  LAZINESS 

With  the  coming  of  real  summer  a  spirit  of  laziness 
comes  over  one.  The  Sandman  of  childhood,  who 
used  to  go  about  throwing  grains  of  sleepiness  into 
our  eyes,  is  a  greater  —  if  less  mysterious  —  monster 
now.  His  breath  is  the  soft  South  wind ;  his  costume 
includes  a  broad  brimmed  hat,  tan  shoes,  and  an 
outing  suit.  He  catches  us  in  his  hammock  net, 
and  his  destroying  weapon  —  alas !  —  is  a  novel. 
His  method  of  procedure  is  interesting.  It  consists 
largely  in  a  disintegration  of  society.  All  winter  we 
have  had  a  pride  in  keeping  busy,  do-nothingness  has 
been  a  horror  to  us;  society  has  forbidden  us  to 
"laze"  in  the  evenings,  organized  clubs  have  re 
quired  our  unremitting  attention,  subscription- 
papers  have  kept  us  busy  earning  the  money  that 
we  felt  it  a  duty  to  subscribe.  No  grass  has  grown 
under  our  feet.  If  we  had  a  spare  hour  in  the  day 
some  of  us  devoted  it  to  self  improvement,  and  the 
rest  of  us  to  the  improvement  of  others.  It  depends 
upon  your  character  whether  you  adopt  humility 
and  aspiration  as  your  leisure  hour  virtues,  or 
whether  you  choose  to  pose  as  a  philanthropist,  a 
patriot,  and  a  charity  worker.  Somebody  has  said 
that  all  the  world's  best  work  is  done  in  its  leisure 

[104] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


hours.     We  don't  quite  think  that,  because  we  think 
that  the  necessary  work  is  truly  the  best,  but  we 
do  think  that  a  great  deal  of  the  culture,  polish,  and 
comfort  of  the  world  is  the  result  of  its  leisure  hours. 
And  now,  suddenly,  society  falls  apart.     The  warm 
sun  comes,  and  lo!    The  clubs  are  disbanded,  the 
subscription  papers  cease  going  round,  the  evenings 
are  free,  and  the  various  integral  parts  of  that  great 
machine  that  has  kept  you  jumping  all  winter  are 
shipped  to  the  seaside,  the  mountains,  the  lakes,  - 
anywhere,  that  isn't  at  home.     Some  of  them  find 
in  the  summer  places  enough  of  the  missing  pieces 
to  make  a  new  machine,  but  those  who  stay  at  home, 
or  go  into  the  solitudes  suddenly  find  themselves 
with  many  leisure  hours.     The  improvement  craze 
is  over,  though.     The  leisure  time  is  only  negatively 
improved  in  the  mental  rest  and  the  building  up  of 
vigor  for  the  winter.      We  Americans  live  so  hard 
during  nine  or  ten  months  of  the  year  that  the  holi 
day  season  should  be  more  strictly  observed  here 
than  anywhere  else  —  and  we  are  not  sure  that  it 
isn't,  though  there  is  still  some  room  for  improve 
ment. 


[105] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


PATHS  (FOOTPRINTS) 

We  city  folk  cannot  see  much  of  the  poet-sung 
trails  of  the  wood  and  paths  of  the  country,  but  on 
a  snowy  winter's  evening,  or  in  the  morning,  we  can 
successfully  study  the  paths  of  a  busy  people.  It  is 
an  interesting  subject  and  well  worth  while,  if  it 
happens  you  never  before  have  thought  of  it.  If 
soon  enough  after  the  storm  you  may  see  even  the 
footprints  of  the  pioneer;  and  with  that  and  the 
character  of  the  trail  to  aid  you,  why  shouldn't  you 
form  most  accurate  theories,  compose  little  stories 
founded  on  indisputable  facts?  If  there  is  any 
doubt  you  can  follow  the  steps  until  they  turn  in 
somewhere  or  are  lost  in  a  better  beaten  track. 
Perhaps  two  pairs  of  shoes  have  left  a  mark,  and 
you  can  use  your  detective  qualities  in  deciding 
whether  they  went  together,  whether  one  was  a 
woman's  and  one  a  man's ;  whether  they  ever  paused, 
and  if  so,  why?  Oh,  you  can  have  a  beautiful  time 
if  there  are  the  impressions  of  two  kinds  of  shoes, 
pointed  in  the  same  direction  1  If  they  go  in  oppo 
site  ways  it  is  interesting  to  look  for  the  point  where 
they  passed,  and  when  you  get  to  it  you  will  have  to 
decide  whether  the  owners  stopped  and  spoke.  And 
all  the  time,  as  you  discover  with  great  surprise 

[106] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


when  you  turn,  you  have  been  making  a  path  your 
self!  It  does  a  fellow  good,  at  such  a  time  to  stand 
on  the  step  and  look  back  at  the  path  he  has  made. 
He'll  find  his  sins,  his  indecision,  his  dreaminess,  his 
possible  toeing-in;  all  plainly  written  behind  him. 


[107J 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


TREES  AND  SPRING  FOLIAGE 

A  child  walking  in  a  forest  is  quoted  as  saying: 
"Do  the  trees  admire  each  other's  new  clothes?" 
It  is  an  essentially  poetic  notion,  and  recalls  Macau- 
lay's  dictum  that  one  must  be  a  child  before  one 
can  be  a  poet.  Only,  nowadays,  if  the  poet  really 
meant  it,  and  felt  the  answer  to  his  question,  he 
might  not  ask  it;  and  if  he  did  ask  it  one  would 
suspect  him  of  posing.  There  is  that  in  the  attitude 
of  the  freshly  clothed  trees  that  is  marvelously  life 
like.  Doubtless  everyone  has  enough  of  the  poet  in 
him  to  notice  it,  only  most  of  us  are  too  sophisticated 
to  let  ourselves  dwell  on  the  thought.  We  hear 
them  rustle  with  half  whispered  pleasure,  we  see 
them  wave  their  branches  as  though  trying  the 
effect  of  light  and  shade  on  different  parts,  we  see 
their  tall  heads  bend  this  way  and  that  in  gracious 
admiration,  and  we  notice  that  the  cherry  tree  no 
sooner  dons  its  fair  spring  bonnet  than  the  peach,  the 
apple,  and  the  pear  tree  follow,  each  making  a  slight 
departure,  with  a  little  more  pink  or  a  little  more 
white,  from  the  admired  bonnet  of  its  neighbor,  and 
yet  keeping  so  near  it  as  to  be  unmistakably  in  the 
fashion.  There  is  a  little  criticism  noAV  and  then, 
we  suppose;  and  quite  an  unmistakable  effort  on 

[108] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


the  part  of  the  maples,  the  birches,  and  the  chest 
nuts  to  outdo  one  another;  but  on  the  whole  the 
feeling  seems  to  be  one  of  joy,  and  the  early  spring  a 
sort  of  gala  occasion.  The  same  thing  could  be 
noticed  no  doubt,  and  perhaps  to  greater  extent, 
among  the  wild  flowers,  had  we  city  folk  half  the 
chance.  It  is  the  first  of  "The  Season"  for  all  vege 
tation,  and  it  isn't  until  midsummer  that  the  belles 
of  the  field  and  the  wood  begin  to  look  jaded  and 
worn,  and  the  fine  gowns  a  bit  rusty  from  use.  The 
ardor  of  the  lover-sun  has  then  become  wearisome, 
and  the  distant  admiration  of  night's  cool  stars  is 
welcomed. 


[109] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  PEN 

Oh,  cherish  the  ink-covered  pen, 
And  think  of  the  women  and  men 
Whose  fortunes  its  made  or  undone, 
Whose  hearts  it  has  broken  or  won  - 
That  little  obedient  pen, 
That  steel  little  ink-covered  pen! 


1110] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  MAID  OF  THE  MIST 

Born  at  the  fall  of  the  waters, 

Where  the  great  pure  stream  descends 

To  a  wild  embrace,  with  a  laughing  face 
And  a  love  that  naught  transcends; 

Born  where  the  river  had  fallen, 

Where  it  lies  in  weary  sleep, 
And  where  Death's  hands  rest  on  its  placid  breast 

And  no  cry  comes  out  the  deep ; 

Sprung  from  the  tears  of  the  river, 

Where  the  dead  and  living  kissed, 
She  at  love's  own  sign,  like  a  thing  divine, 

Has  aris'n— the  Maid  of  Mist! 

Mutely  appealing,  in  anguish 

She  is  waving  sinuous  arms. 
While  her  garments  white,  as  they  flutter  light, 

Only  half  conceal  her  charms. 


[ill] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  WIND  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 

I  hear  a  distant  warwhoop, 

The  rush  of  stealthy  feet; 
I  feel  the  breath  of  runners — 

Of  runners  who  are  fleet. 
I'd  fain  escape,  but  strong  arms 

Are  clutching  from  behind— 
The  spirits  of  dead  Indians 

Are  riding  on  the  wind. 


[112] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


STARS 

Oh  beautiful  stars  of  the  heavens 
So  peaceful  and  calm  in  your  home, 

Like  jewels  on  the  Infinite  bosom 
Ye  glimmer,  the  lights  of  our  dome! 

Ye  count  not  the  miles  in  the  ether; 

Ye  know  not  the  struggles  below — 
Our  sorrows,  contentions,  and  strivings; 

Forever  untroubled  ye  glow! 

So  silent,  so  steadfast,  unchanging! 

The  same  God  whose  power  ye  declare, 
"Directeth  our  paths"  through  the  shadows, 

Our  loved  ones  are  safe  in  His  care. 

And  thus,  gentle  watchers  of  ev'ning, 
While  lovers  and  loved  share  thy  light 
They  feel  that  the  same  God  is  o'er  them — 
The  same  stars  are  bidden:  "Good  Night!" 


[113] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


THE  FOUR  WINDS 

The  East 

From  out  of  the  glorious  East, 
From  skies  that  are  crimson  and  gold, 
From  the  beautiful  gates  of  the  great  unknown 
Where  the  morning  sun  in  its  splendor  shone, 
Thou  ridest,  oh  breath  of  the  East,— 
The  symbol  of  birth,  behold! 

The  North 

With  shout  and  the  roar  of  the  gale 
Thou  travellest  down  from  the  North — 
Thoughts  of  tempest  and  storm  in  thy  throbbing  brain, 
Prizes  thou  by  night  and  by  force  must  gain, 
To  battle  thou  journey est  forth, — 
Oh,  symbol  of  strength,  prevail ! 


[114] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


The  South 

But  thou  from  the  South  hath  stolen, 
With  whispers  of  love  and  wine. 
Ah,  the  light  that  gleams  in  a  maiden's  eyes 
Has  been  fanned  to  flame  by  thy  languorous  sighs,- 
By  thee,  from  the  Southland  stolen, 
Oh  symbol  of  youth  divine ! 

The   West 

Then  over  the  fields  of  the  West, 
Advancing  as  grain  stalks  bend, 
Where  the  ling'ring  sun  with  its  blushes  red 
Throws  a  last  long  kiss  ere  the  day  is  dead, 
Thou  comest  to  tell  of  final  rest— 
Of  strife  and  of  love  at  end. 


[115] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


OCTOBER-WALKING,  SUNSETS,  AND 
DEATH 

What  weather  for  walking  is  that  of  these  bright 
October  days!  And  how  few  persons  really  walk 
in  them !  All  sorts  of  athletic  exercises  are  the  fash 
ion  now;  all  sorts  of  new,  strange,  and  unnatural 
modes,  while  the  good  old-fashioned  one  of  walking 
is  quite  overlooked  or  ignored.  In  the  city  the  cars 
take  one  anywhere,  so  swiftly  and  smoothly,  that 
we  think  we  have  no  time  to  walk;  and  in  the  coun 
try  it  is  so  much  easier  to  ''hitch  up,"  that  almost 
everybody  rides  a  mile  instead  of  walking  it.  But 
there  is  nothing  after  all  quite  as  good  as  a  walk,  as  a 
careless,  easy  stride  for  a  few  miles  in  the  city  or  the 
country;  when  one  can  fill  one's  lungs  with  the  brac 
ing  summer  air,  and  feast  one's  eyes  on  the  gorgeous 
coloring  of  the  trees  and  twilight  skies.  It  is  the 
time  that  comes  but  now  and  then  to  all  of  us,  when 
man  and  nature  are  brought  face  to  face,  when  the 
divine  in  man  recognizes  the  divinity  of  nature,  and 
he  feels  his  soul  expanded  and  uplifted,  while  all  the 
petty  cares  of  life  flow  fast  away,  and  death  itself — 
life's  hardest  trial  because  it  is  life's  antithesis— seems 
as  beautiful,  calm,  and  natural  as  the  coming  of 
night,  starry  and  mysterious,  after  the  heat  of  day. 

[116] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


And  the  new  world,  the  new  life,  which  the  dying 
enters,  seems  to  lie  just  beyond  that  glorious,  golden 
portal  of  the  west— unruffled,  unlimited,  and  where 
there  is  no  darkness  in  the  night. 


[117] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


HOPE  AND  THE  NEW  YEAR 

In  a  New  Year's  editorial  the  Philadelphia  Press 
says:  "The  world  expects  every  man  and  woman  to 
make  a  success  of  his  or  her  life.  Failure  is  not 
hoped  for."  Undoubtedly  this  is  true.  Just  a 
moment's  thought  will  show  it,  and  yet  most  of  us 
go  through  life  on  a  different  plan.  In  fighting  and 
struggling  for  success  one  imagines  that  he  is  fighting 
all  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  that  he  is  his  own  only 
ally.  This  is  very  flattering  to  himself,  for  in  reality 
he  is  fighting  no  one  but  himself,  and  the  world 
merely  looks  on  in  a  friendly  sort  of  way,  not,  as  a 
whole,  particularly  interested  until  one  side  or  the 
other  seems  pretty  sure  to  win;  but  ready  to  cry 
"bravo"  whenever  a  good  stroke  is  made,  or  to 
point  the  finger  of  scorn  when  a  blow  is  clumsily 
dodged.  Of  course  the  world  has  its  favorites,  but 
favoritism  never  yet  won  a  genuine  battle,  and  it 
would  be  absurd  to  imagine  that  there  is  not  room 
for  twice  as  many  successes  as  there  now  are.  Prob 
ably  the  thing  that  makes  New  Year's  day  pleasanter 
than  the  last  day  of  the  old  year,  is  the  element  of 
hope.  The  year  that  is  past  has  nothing  but  experi 
ence;  the  year  to  come  has  nothing  but  hope;  and 

[118] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


there  never  yet  was  a  man  who  did  not  prefer  an  ex 
pectation  to  a  reality.  Realities  always  have  their 
drawbacks.  When  we  hope  for  a  thing  we  omit  the 
disagreeable  features  and  looking  into  the  new  year 
we  hope  nothing  but  success;  while,  looking 
back  on  the  old,  we  see  ever  so  many  failures. 
It  may  be  added,  too,  that  every  one  lives  in  the 
future.  The  present  is  just  as  hard  a  thing  to  dis 
cover,  as  the  scientists'  atom,  for  the  instant  you  find 
it,  it  is  past.  You  can't  think  quick  enough  to  catch 
it  before  it  is  gone;  and  the  past,  which  is  history, 
has  always  been  a  "grind"  as  compared  with  the 
possible  future. 


[119] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


SUMMER  AND  AUTUMN 

There  is  little  evidence  yet  in  nature,  to  the  un 
trained  eye,  that  summer  is  passing;  though  here 
and  there  in  the  country  a  red  glow  on  exposed 
branches  of  the  maple,  or  on  the  climbing  woodbine, 
is  like  a  promise  of  autumnal  fires;  and  the  longer 
evenings,  bringing  more  and  more  of  day  time  into 
shadow,  whisper  that  summer  nights  are  gone. 
Without  violence  or  jar  the  change  steals  upon  us, 
and  where  fair  Summer  stood  and  smiled  we  soon 
shall  find  the  darker  Autumn.  Though  Summer 
will  still  linger  a  while.  There  is  just  the  suggestion 
now  of  Autumn's  coming,  the  beginning  of  anticipa 
tion,  the  knowledge  that  hot  days  are  numbered, 
that  four  weeks  at  most  will  bring  us  Autumn.  Yet 
Summer  still  is  fair  and  strong,  still  wears  a  gown  of 
unfaded  verdure,  yet  will  show  youth's  ardor  ere  she 
steals  away.  Her  kisses  now  are  of  farewell,  how 
ever,  as  sweet,  as  long,  impulsive  as  before,  and  yet 
farewell.  The  harvests  tell  that  summer's  work  is 
nearly  over,  and  when  the  page  of  August  is  torn 
from  the  calendar  we  know  that  a  turning  point  of 
the  year  has  come.  We  shall  not  see  the  transforma 
tion,  but  before  September  leaves  us  Summer  will 
have  fled.  There  are  four  corners  in  the  year. 

[120] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS] 


Three  of  them  are  curved,  so  that  you  may  not  know 
just  when  you  turn  them — only  when  the  calendar 
first  reads  "April,"  first  reads  "June,"  first  reads 
"September,"  you  know  that  there  has  been  a  mighty 
change.  From  December  into  January  the  turn  is 
sharp. 


[1211 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


OCTOBER 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  months  of  the  year  is 
drawing  to  its  close.  There  would  be  no  object  in 
telling  the  number  of  days  on  which  the  sun  has 
shone,  in  computing  the  unusually  high  mean  tem 
perature,  or  the  absence  of  storms,  of  gales,  or  of 
sudden  and  violent  changes  in  temperature.  We  are 
aware  of  it  all,  and  look  back  on  the  vanishing  month 
as  one  in  which  Nature  has  been  almost  perfect  in 
our  sight.  Her  work  of  the  year  was  over,  the  winter 
snows  had  been  melted,  the  tender  flowers  of  spring 
had  been  carefully  nurtured,  the  trees  had  put  forth 
their  fresh  green  leaves,  the  fields  had  waved  with 
ripening  grain,  and  the  delicate  blossoms  of  May  had 
ripened  into  the  luscious  fruits  of  September.  There 
was  little  more  to  be  done.  Like  a  painter  whose 
picture  was  nearly  finished  Nature  has  lingered  over 
the  finishing  touches,  has  put  in  the  last  rich  tints, 
the  last  flakes  of  light  and  the  last  lines  of  shade. 
Her  magic  wand  with  which  for  six  months  she  has 
made  the  earth  bring  forth  food,  and  serve  purposes 
of  utility  in  which  beauty  should  be  only  secondary, 
has  this  month  touched  the  fields  and  woodlands  with 
lovelier  purpose,  and  bade  them  don  their  gayest 
colors,  for  the  work  of  the  year  is  done.  The  maples 

[122] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


have  wrapped  themselves  in  gold,  the  sumach 
in  streamers  of  red.  The  soft  maples  have  blushed 
at  the  farewell  kiss  of  the  dying  fall,  or  caught,  in 
their  leaves,  the  red  glow  of  the  summer  sun.  The 
oaks,  their  foliage  green  and  bright  as  in  early  June, 
have  bordered  the  edge  of  their  leaves  with  crimson, 
and  the  country  stands  still  and  breathless  in  her 
gay  attire.  But  now  white  Death  is  coming,  and 
his  cold  breath,  and  the  whir  of  his  flying  garments, 
will  announce  that  beautiful  Nature  is  dead.  Then 
the  gay  robes  will  be  put  aside,  the  leaves  will  fall 
from  the  trees;  and  meadow,  field,  and  woodland 
will  cry,  "Let  me  die,  too."  And  they  will  die,  and 
the  heavens  will  spread  a  white  pall  over  the  stricken 
earth ;  which  time  will  change  to  the  birth-robes  of  a 
new  born  year. 


[123] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


EASTER  AND  CHRISTMAS 

Easter  and  Christmas  are  the  two  great  days  of 
the  Christian  year,  the  two  most  broadly  observed, 
and  into  whose  observance  Christendom  most  throws 
its  heart  and  loving  spirit.  Their  commemoration 
has  increased  of  late,  as  religion  has  swung  back 
from  the  stern  plainness  of  Puritanism.  And  as 
signal  fires  once  traveled  swiftly,  striding  giant-like 
from  hill  to  hill,  so  now  the  advancing  sun  of  Easter 
morn  and  Christmas  is  accompanied  by  a  wave  of 
song,  of  anthem  and  of  carol,  that  belts  the  earth 
with  gladness  as  the  sun  has  belted  it  with  the  light 
of  the  gala,  holy  day.  But  in  the  observance  of 
Easter  and  of  Christmas,  one  notices  a  wide  differ 
ence  of  tendency.  Christmas  is,  and  always  has 
been,  more  secularized.  No  doubt  something  of  this 
is  due  to  the  circumstance  that  Easter  must  always 
fall  on  Sunday.  But  more,  we  believe,  is  in  the  spirit 
of  the  day.  The  central  figure  of  religion's  Christ 
mas  is  a  Mother  with  new  born  Child,  divine  indeed 
and  beautiful,  but  not  beyond  the  power  of  man  to 
image.  The  central  figure  of  the  Easter  is  a  risen 
Lord,  death  vanquished  in  such  a  way  as  only  faith 
can  see.  Joy  goes  naturally  with  the  thought  of 
birth,  tears  with  the  thought  of  death,  solemn  and 

[124] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


awful  mystery  that  a  symbol  still  more  wondrous 
turns  at  Eastertide  to  holy  gladness.  There  is  no 
temptation  in  the  true  spirit  of  Easter  to  feast  and 
make  merry.  Love  that  laughed  at  Christmas 
smiles  now,  with  trust,  through  tears.  One  gets  the 
difference  even  in  the  Biblical  account,  where  the 
birth  is  heralded  as  "tidings  of  great  joy;"  and  the 
resurrection  with  the  words,  all  comforting,  all  pity 
ing,  "Woman,  why  weepest  thou?" 

The  difference  in  the  popular  celebration  of  Christ 
mas  and  of  Easter  is  of  beautiful  significance.  In 
the  churches  the  difference  is  more  in  thought  than 
expression.  On  both  occasions  the  joyousness  of  the 
music  is  the  main  feature,  and  as  far  as  the  sound 
goes  there  is  not  so  very  much  difference.  But  in 
the  popular  celebration  of  the  day  there  is  a  very 
sharp  distinction  between  the  joyous  faith  of  Easter 
and  the  secularized  delight  of  "Merry  Christmas." 
The  difference  in  the  feeling  regarding  the  two  days 
here  finds  untrammelled  expression;  and  the  world 
that  would  mix  hanging  stockings,  a  fabled,  jolly, 
toymaker  saint,  mince  pies,  and  plum  pudding  with 
the  sweet  Christmas  story;  mingles  with  its  Easter 
feeling  nothing  foreign  to  the  wonder  of  the  miracle 
itself;  and  recognizes,  with  a  true  and  beautiful 
intuition,  that  only  God's  own  flowers,  the  purity  of 
the  lilies  especially,  can  express  the  solemn,  the  beau- 

[125] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


tiful,  mysterious  gladness  of  that  day.  Over  the 
Cross  the  flowers  are  wound,  into  memorial  wreaths, 
or  gathered  in  beautiful  offerings.  Nor  at  the  church 
alone,  but  by  individual  to  individual  they  are  given, 
carrying  that  direct,  comforting,  wonderful,  question 
that  for  hundreds  of  years  has  stilled  the  twanging 
chords  of  breaking  hearts,  or  touched  them  into  har 
mony  with  the  triumphant  song  of  her  love.  They 
are  a  recognition  by  the  world,  which  is  prone  to 
magnify  its  own  capacity,  that  for  once  nothing  of 
its  own  make  or  planning  is  fair  enough  and  pure 
enough  to  express  its  feelings,  in  the  holy  joy  of 
Easter. 


[126] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


LONGEVITY,  AGE  AND  DEATH 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  interest  in  long 
evity  is  very  great  and  general,  but  it  is  equally  clear 
that  the  interest  is  not  in  old  age,  per  se;  but  in  the 
postponement  of  dying.  Nobody  wants  to  be  old; 
but  perpetual  youth  is  not  to  be  found,  and  so  the 
only  alternative  is  death.  Between  death  and  age 
the  world  grabs  with  pitiful  eagerness  at  feeble  and 
tottering  years  of  deafness  and  blindness— not  from 
love,  but  from  fear  of  the  unknown.  It  faces  weak 
ness,  sorrow,  loneliness,  and  misunderstanding;  it 
chooses  an  easy  chair  and  a  broken  tea-cup,  when  it 
might  be  "sitting  on  a  cloud  a-singing,"  where  sor 
row  and  tears  will  be  no  morel  The  real  secret  of 
living,  then,  is  dying.  Teach  us  not  to  keep  a  feeble 
soul  and  a  feeble  body  together  by  some  pitifully 
fragile  thread,  that  the  smallest  excitement  or  activ 
ity  will  sever;  but  teach  us  to  die  calmly,  bravely, 
and  gladly  when  life's  best  days  are  over;  to  take 
the  step  without  dread  or  fear  that  leads  from  the 
youth  that  is  passing  to  the  youth  immortal.  That 
will  be  a  lesson  well  worth  learning,  well  worth 
teaching.  It  will  exalt  humanity  by  breaking  down 
the  barrier  that  those  who  cling  to  terrestrial  life 
would  put  between  it  and  eternity.  Which  is  most 

[127] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


inspiring,  most  ennobling,  in  which  is  the  secret  of 
life  best  solved,  in  the  career  of  the  dame  who  lived 
to  be  a  hundred-and-ten,  and  was  able  to  smoke  a 
pipe  of  tobacco  every  morning  and  to  be  wheeled 
out  of  doors  for  a  half-hour  until  she  was  105,  bur 
dening  her  great-great-grandchildren;  or  in  the 
career  of  the  young  woman,  or  man,  cut  off  in  the 
prime  of  life,  in  the  rush  of  activities,  and  laid  to  rest 
by  weeping  friends  to  be  thought  of  forever  as  loving, 
unselfish,  and  busy?  Which  of  these  survives  long 
est  in  the  thought  of  the  world? 

Let  us  learn,  then,  to  die ;  the  lesson  will  surely  be 
needed ;  and  if  we  live,  let  us  live  as  well  as  we  can, 
without  fear  of  shortening  our  career,  for  the  dying 
day  is  bound  to  come,  and,  whatever  the  tombstone 
says,  one  lives  in  deeds  and  in  love,  not  years. 


[128] 


THE  CITY  SLEEPS 


TOMBS 

Ah,  why  are  we  so  slow  to  learn  the  lesson  that 
there  is  but  one  tomb  which  is  truly  noble,  but  one 
mausoleum  that  time  does  not  corrode?  We  see 
again  and  again  among  our  contemporaries  and  in 
history  that  only  he  is  great  in  death  who  is  great  in 
glorious  memory;  that  love  is  purer  than  alabaster, 
more  lasting  than  granite,  more  precious  than  jewels. 
We  who  would  raise  a  beautiful  sepulcher  for  our 
selves  should  raise  it  in  fine  deeds,  fine  thoughts,  and 
fine  words;  and  then  no  spire  of  stone  will  rise  so 
high  as  the  inspiration  of  the  memory  we  leave;  no 
masses  at  high  altar  make  so  powerful  a  benediction 
as  the  tears  of  those  who  mourn.  A  little  of  nature's 
greensward  then,  a  bit  of  "God's  acre,"  where  the 
flowers  may  bloom  above  us,  is  resting  place  noble 
enough  for  the  noblest,  if  their  memory  but  abide 
with  the  living !  That  spot  may  well  be  more  conse 
crated  than  all  the  dusty  tombs  with  broken  nose 
and  fingered  effigies  that  fill  the  royal  chapels  of 
Westminster. 


[129] 


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